


Breaking the Habit

by loosescrew



Category: The Breakfast Club (1985)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 12:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16765240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loosescrew/pseuds/loosescrew
Summary: Because here, John had a chance at something he'd been pushing away for years. Something he longed for ever since the night his father slapped him across the cheek for shattering a glass vase. Something he thought he could never have.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ma be really real with you guys, I’ve had this posted on ffn for close to a year now and completely forgot to post it here. Oops!!!! But it’s fine bc I’ve recently went back and polished it so you guys won’t be reading a lot of my horrible mistakes from the original version. You’re welcome! :D

**A/N:** The first chapter is heavily inspired by my friends fic, called a _Debt of Gratitude_ by wordslinger (I’ll make sure to link it when I’m on my computer). Both are based on this prompt: " _I'm a super tough punk who hates authority. Your parents are cops who've met me more than once but I really like you._ "

 **Warnings before proceeding with this story:** mentions of child abuse, drug use, alcohol consumption, depression, brief mentions of suicide, eventually going to change the rating if I do write smut or depictions of it (which I haven't decided yet) And there's also lots of OC's… Yeah, sorry…

And, yes, the title is from that song. I started writing this around the time Chester Bennington passed. Kind of a cathartic thing, I guess.

* * *

" _Oh, shit_!" The way Sullivan tossed the can added to the severity of the situation. "It's the cops! Let's get outta here!"

The others wasted no time, following Sullivan's order—Sullivan always the self-proclaimed leader—and chucked whatever was in their hands, taking off the street right after him like a pack of ducks, or platoon sergeant—though Sullivan wished he was ballsy enough to join the Marine Corps. John didn't bother, staring at their retreating backs in disdain.

He clutched the can of black spray paint tightly, knuckles peeking from his fingerless gloves beginning to go white. His wrist started aching from the pressure. The sirens in the distance getting closer. But, still, John stayed rooted, like some invisible force was holding onto his ankles. And John had a few seconds to access the damage of what they'd done.

Judging by the two story house—and the cozy neighborhood with their tiny gardens of real flowers and real grass—the homeowners made decent money. This house had a porch—a painted white porch that they'd spray painted, of course—now with a broken table and equally splintered chairs. John was surprised the owners hadn't woken up to the sound of Chester smashing the chair into their driveway, laughing maniacally as he did it. And what really bothered John right at the moment was how they didn't even know these people. It wasn't a usual act of revenge, orchestrated by Sullivan. It was just a random incident to kill time, an excuse to be away from home.

Maybe they were good people, those kind of people that held doors open for others no matter what the age, no matter what kind of shitty day they were having. They were obviously hardworking people. They'd probably gone to college to help themselves towards a better living, who worked nine-to-five jobs and just wanted to come home and relax. They even had a nice car—a Honda CRX that they'd ruined. Just because.

Upstairs, the bedroom light flickered on. An uneasy feeling washed over him, his stomach clenching, waiting for the dark curtains to pull apart. His throat felt sandpaper dry. What could he even say? No amount of apologies could fix this shit. The CRX, disintegrated and blackened, with two tires slashed, and their outside furniture and even their tiny garden were ruined. And it's not like he was made of money. He was lucky to even have five dollars in his pocket—in quarters.

God, he needed a cigarette so bad. The last two hours had been hell, and his head was dull, throbbing annoyingly. All these whirlwind thoughts needed to stop, an outlet. It wasn't like John at all to feel remorse, so much remorse that he felt like crying. He was just so tired of the same damn thing. So tired of Sullivan's stupid-ass ideas. So damn tired of his parents. So tired of life and where it was heading.

John pivoted, chucking the can down the sidewalk, hearing the loud sound of it bouncing off the cement and rolling onto the street and hopefully down the sewer. He plopped on the cold curb and waited, setting his forearms on his knees, staring at the gravel.

How long would he be stuck in _there_ this time? And his father—his fucking, good for nothing, piece of shit old man—was going to be furious. John bit his lip. If he didn't die in jail, John swore that his old man would be the one to put him out. He hoped that when he did, it would be quick and painless. Knowing him, John wouldn't even be given that luxury.

"Bender?"

Jeremiah's weary call made John snap out of his thoughts. He wondered how he looked in Jeremiah's eyes, sitting pathetically on this curb, with the ugly orange-tinted street lamp casting its glow on him in the freezing September night. How long had he even been standing there?

"You should go." John said.

Jeremiah stepped closer. "Let's get going, man, or they'll get you. You can't do this again. You're still on probation. I'm… I'm worried about what'll happen to you—"

"Get going." John repeated, a little more forcefully, scratching the back of his itchy scalp. Jesus, when was the last time he had a shower? "And you know better than to follow Sullivan. Who knows what the fuckin' bozo's gonna do. Go straight home."

"Stop playing around, Bender. This isn't funny…"

"Who said I was joking?"

"Come on, man." Jeremiah pleaded. "Don't do this. They're not gonna let you out this time."

Honestly, he was hoping for that. But John waved his hand dismissively. "Go."

"I can't—"

" _Just get the fuck outta here_!" John barked, not caring if he roused everyone in the neighborhood. "I know what I'm doing! _Go_!"

Jeremiah mulled, bouncing on the balls of his feet, debating on whether to join him or save himself. John already knew what he'd do. Out of, Jeremiah was the worrier, fretting over the pro's and con's of every situation they'd ever been caught in. Sullivan was always reluctant to bring him along. Jeremiah had even premonition this would happen tonight. John, and the other guys for that matter, were the do-er's and go-getter's, never concerning himself with the consequences. It's how they functioned.

But time was ticking, and Jeremiah had to make a decision. The sirens were ringing, louder, closer. The blue and red lights were faintly approaching from the corner of the intersection up ahead, bouncing off the fences. John wouldn't blame Jeremiah if he took off. Jeremiah had a lot going for him than John ever would. And with one last weary gaze, the night swallowed Jeremiah.

John sighed, letting his shoulders sag and loosening his jaw. For as long as he could remember, there wasn't a day that went by where he didn't see Jeremiah. They lived on the same block, Jeremiah even gave him a pair of shoes for his ninth birthday—brand new Keds—when he'd noticed how John had none that fit properly. He wore them until he was twelve. They were still somewhere in his closet. John couldn't say he wouldn't miss Jeremiah.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there—minutes, hours? It felt like hours, just waiting for the inevitable. He had the urge to pluck the blades of grass—do _something_ to pass the time—but he didn't. He'd destroyed enough. Not only this property, but the lives of his parents by being born. At this rate, he'd probably never get out until he was twenty—and he couldn't say the thought didn't make him happy. Not seeing his family for three something years was something he could live with.

The headlights illuminated his ripped combat boots, the corner nearly sawed off that his pinky toe could almost poke through. The lights nearly blinded John when he looked up, making him squeeze his eyes shut. He heard the tired sighs of the cops, _oh, you again_ sighs.

John didn't resist as they pulled him to his feet, locking his arms around his back. The cuffs were like dry ice against his wrists. They didn't even bother patting him down this time, just quickly shoved him in the backseat, closed the door, got in their spots in the front, and resumed their route. John didn't even have time to catch the faces of the homeowners watching from their porch. He didn't think he wanted to see them.

John let his head hit the headrest, staring at the roof of car he'd seen far too many times. Nearly seventeen and sick of life wasn't what he expected to be.

* * *

A long, dragged-out sigh. "And here I thought stealing money from the gas station register would be the last I'd ever see of you, John."

Startled, John flipped over to his side. A grin tugged at his mouth, taking in the familiar young-old face—depending on the angle and lighting—and wrinkle-free suit. George had a nice one on today, cream, with a pastel purple shirt and no tie. Very _Miami Vice_.

"We both know I didn't do it, Georgie. I'm way better at stealing than that."

George's brows rose. "That so? Then you should've told me the names. You would've gotten a shorter sentence, maybe even let off with community service."

"I'm no snitch, Georgie." John made gestures with his fingers. "It's a brotherhood thing, cops like you wouldn't understand. No amount of money or shorter sentences'll get me rat on my guys."

Another one of George's long sighs, accompanied by a shake of his head. "What'm I gonna do with you, John?"

John shrugged wordlessly. George smiled but it was sad, pained. It made John's stomach clench, but John didn't think it was from that. The source of his discomfort was from the brown paper bag George was holding onto; the delicious, baked smell reminding John it'd been almost two days since he'd last eaten.

If it were any other guy, George wiggling the bag like a container of dog treats would've bothered him. "My daughter made it for me but I'd rather you have it."

John cocked his head. "George! You've been holding out on me. I didn't know you had a kid. How old is she?"

"It's not your business." He replied flatly.

" _Ooh_! She's my age!" John sat up, crossing his legs, leaning forward. "So, what's she look like? Redhead like you? Can't say I've ever been with a redhead before, now that I think about it…"

George shook his head, trying not to roll his eyes. "I'm _not_ going to tell you that."

"Aww, Georgie, you're no fun." He couldn't help adding, "Afraid I'd taint her?"

"That's not it, John." George said earnestly. "You're not a bad kid."

"So, then... What's the problem?"

"I'm not comfortable discussing my daughter as some kind of… object. She's a person, and more than capable of taking care of herself." He paused. "I think the worst part about this, is that she'd probably like you."

John shrugged, _I know, they always do_ , and eyed the paper bag again. "So… Is it… edible? No offense, of course, sir, but food poising is not the way I picture myself going out."

"Well, ever since the divorce she's been the one taking care of me." He rambled. "Paying the bills for me, making sure I take my vitamins every morning, making sure the laundry's taken care of, eating right…"

"She sounds like a keeper."

"She shouldn't _have_ to—what kid her age should?—but she's alone so much with nothing to do…" He shook off the solemn, dreamy look in his eyes. "But I'm glad she's learning and taking initiative. She's doing better in school now that the divorce is finalized. I was afraid she'd end up like her mother… God, Helene needed help with everything—

As much as John was curious about George's life outside the penitentiary, he was more interested silencing his stomach. "… Does that mean her food's good?"

George chuckled, throwing the bag through the bars. It landed on the floor. "On occasion."

"'On occasion'." John reiterated, skeptical, lifting off the cot and sitting on the cold, dirty floor, pulling the bag close. "Well… I guess I don't mind being a guinea pig. Something tells me it's better than prison food. It smells right."

George gave a tight lipped smile. "I'm sure it is."

John wasn't sure why George always visited. George was the first cop that'd picked him up, the first time John had stolen. It was milk, because his mom needed it. Maybe George came around often because he found him entertaining. John definitely found his statue-solid patience entertaining. And George always had the shiniest, cleanest clothes; flashy enough to let people know he _had_ money. A true richie, but an uncharacteristically nice richie. Not like the jackasses John was used to, who found any excuse to call the cops on him.

George was quiet as John ate, and he caught him peering down his nose with something in his eyes that looked a lot like pity. John had the urge to chuck the croissant at George's forehead, hoping it'd hit him hard enough to knock him back, but he was just so damn hungry and this little thing didn't even weigh a pound.

"Alec should be here in the morning…" George started the humorous tone from seconds ago disappeared.

"Whoop-di-doo." John replied, stretching each word out, and stuffed another piece of the croissant in his mouth. God, this was so delicious, one of the best things he'd ever eaten. Maybe he was just saying that, but the dough melted right on his tongue in perfect harmony.

His mouth formed a grim line. "Would you like me to tell you the news now? Or wait until Alec?"

John remembered the little bit of his manners and swallowed. "About what?"

"About your status, John."

"Nothing I don't already know." John rolled his shoulders. "You guys finally figured out none of my other family wants me around their charming household—afraid I'll find a way to corrupt their children?" George didn't answer, pressing his lips together. John continued, "Can't say I'm shocked. The only person that would've wanted me is my grandma but she's been dead."

"It's not correct, John." George shook his head. "It shouldn't be like this—"

John tore another piece off, watching the smoke rise, his mouth watering. "It's the cards I was dealt with, Georgie, can't do much about it except adapt."

"You kids _need_ guidance." He said. "Parental figures. Guardians. Parents."

"Not when you got 'em like mine." John said, sitting straighter. "Don't you remember the last time I was here, George? The _look_ on my old man's face when he came? And you guys… You guys still let me go off with him."

"John—"

"You should've seen the shit he did to me when we got home." John kept going, the simmering anger he'd bottled up over that incident slipping out. "Gave me a new scar, too. It's on my leg, wanna see? The cigar burn wasn't enough for him. I'm better off not being there—"

"But you're better off being in and out of a jail cell, you were going to say? Stuck here for the rest of your life, for crimes you didn't commit, you mean?" George asked rhetorically, his face set, his eyes hard. He was angry.

"Anything's better." John muttered, finishing up his meal.

George scoffed in such a fatherly way it made John sick. "You don't want to be stuck in here anymore than you are, son—"

" _Don't_ call me that."

George regarded him. "I could've done something about him years ago, John. You know I could've. If you'd have just told me—"

" _Why_?" John exclaimed, his defenses on the rise. "So they can put me in a foster home? Act like everything's all dilly-dally now that Johnny's off the streets? No, thanks, Georgie. I think I'd rather…" John couldn't even say it out loud.

"Not all foster homes are bad, John." George said calmly, gently, like coaxing a baby out of their temper tantrum. "You should give them a chance. There's statistics about foster homes being beneficial."

"I'd rather not find out. Too many stories, too many different opinions."

George sighed, his hand rubbing his temples. "I guess I'll tell you the news. Alec's finally found a contact that wants to take you in. She lives in Shermer, I'm not sure if you know her—your father's sister, Sandra. He's trying to get in touch with her again for confirmation. Otherwise…"

Shermer… John tested the name in his brain, wondering why it sounded so familiar, so… homely, almost. John finished, crushing the paper towel into a ball, throwing it into the bag, and tossing the bag back at George who caught it easily.

John padded back to his cot. "Either or's fine. I don't care."

"John—"

John faced the light grey, cracked wall. He could almost make out faint drawings—from pens? "Things'll be fine. Don't worry so much, I hear it's bad for your complexion."

There was a moment of stillness. John knew George was still standing there. He could feel holes being dug into his back with George's sympathetic gaze.

"I'm the oldest one here, John." George said finally, shuffling on his feet. "You can't tell me what to worry about."

John held up his arm, waving. "It was nice seeing ya again, George."

* * *

John didn't remember the hour drive to Shermer. The lull of the engine made him pass out within the first few minutes. He was surprised Alec even let him sleep.

He'd only met his aunt, Sandra, once when he was six. It was at his birthday party, back when his parents were happy—a time he remembered fondly though it was beginning to feel like a sweet dream.

Sandra answered the door after the first series of knocks. She looked the same from his memory; fine hair and skin, ideal model height—the complete opposite of her fraternal twin brother. But the way her sea green eyes meticulously scanned him reminded John so much of his father. He tried not to gulp.

His eyes wandered to her side. A toddler—probably no more than three—was balanced on her hip. He stared at John curiously with soft, brown eyes.

Alec glanced at the sheet he'd been holding onto. "Sandra Halen?"

"Until the divorce papers are signed, yes."

Alec nodded understandingly. "May I come in?"

Sandra stepped aside. "Sure."

"Stay here." Alec said to John, walking inside. He immediately stepped on a squeaky toy. And another one. And he almost tripped on another. The couch caught his fall. John licked his lips, trying not to laugh.

"You look just like my brother when he was your age." Sandra said abruptly, shaking her head in awe. "It's like I'm staring at a reflection… except his hair was a lot longer and really wavy. He said it made girls hot for him."

John's face fell, his fingers curled in the pocket of the leather jacket they'd let him keep. He hated being compared to his father. "Guess he wasn't wrong. I got his _winning_ personality, too."

Sandra's lips twisted. "I was hoping you'd get Joan's instead. She's nice. Did she finally leave him?"

If only Sandra knew, really knew that his mom could be just as bad as his father. They were a match made in Hell.

"Still together." He affirmed reluctantly.

"Brave woman." Sandra complimented though John didn't think she meant it. It was too layered. "I heard about the stroke. I wanted to visit but I never found the time. And now… I still don't have much time."

John shrugged. "It was years ago, bound to happen any day. Old man never bothered to take care of himself. Still doesn't."

"I'm sorry, John." Sandra frowned sadly. "Johnathon wasn't always like that."

John's brows rose in the utmost scorn. He took pride in his vast memory. He remembered the very first time he met Jeremiah. It was at school. They were playing a game of hopscotch. That was also the day he met Sullivan and the day John decided he hated him right away.

But when it came to his father? John couldn't recall a thing. Did he ever bother to teach him how to ride a bike? Or teach him to tie his shoes? Did he ever say a kind word to him? Considering how many times Johnathon liked to remind him how _worthless_ and _stupid_ he was, probably not.

John was pretty sure his mom did all that… until she eventually stopped. He felt like she woke up one day, and realized how right his father had been about him. Except John remembered what she'd been like before everything. It always made him wonder what could make a parent turn on their child. Was it really all his fault for just existing?

"It is what it is." John managed, looking away. "I don't need your pity."

Sandra's frown grew deeper, like she understood the memories running through his mind. She didn't know a quarter of it. "It's not pity, John. It's being empathetic."

"Whatever it is, I don't want it."

She huffed, hiking the toddler who'd been slipping. "I was gonna say that there's three rules in this house but I guess I'll have to include a fourth, about kindness."

John was taken aback. "… Rules? How old do you think I am? Five? You got a timeout corner, too?"

"Obviously not, since you're old enough to be in and out of jail as you so please." John ran his tongue over his teeth. "What? Got nothing to say back, huh?"

John glared, and it probably would've scared most people. But Sandra was a Bender. "I got lots of things to say. I just don't care enough about ya to bother."

"Oh-kay." She drawled sarcastically. "I'm sorry to break it to ya, Johnny-boy, but all we do is love in this house. You're gonna have to start caring unless you wanna go back. Do you?"

It hadn't been an hour since his boots touched the tile of her upscale driveway but everything around here felt so much lighter. Shermer was where his parents met, that's how he'd recognized the name—from the one time he'd asked his mom how they came to be. There _had_ to be some good here. And damn them to whatever Hell they came from but it felt right to be here.

"No."

"Good!" She almost did that girly jump and accompanying clap. "So, the rules are: Finish high school. Get a job or go to college. And stay out of trouble, meaning: no drugs, no drinking, no drunk driving, no stealing, and whatever other stuff you'd get in trouble for. Got it?"

He titled his head to the side. "What if I can't agree to 'em?"

"Then I suggest you figure something out within the next five minutes because you'll be without a place to stay."

John looked away from her, towards the other town houses within the community.

He could hear the leaves as the wind weaved through the palm trees planted in the mediums. He'd grown up mistaking gunshots for fireworks in the distance. He could hear kids laughing and splashing in the public pool. He imagined some of them walked to school in the morning, never having to worry about their door or window being broken into. He saw a few people walking their dogs. He'd always wanted a cat ever since that night he spotted a stray just as hungry as him in their garbage can. Maybe here he could finally have one—if Sandra let him.

Because here, John had a chance at something he'd been pushing away for years. Something he longed for ever since the night his father slapped him across the cheek for shattering a glass vase. Something he thought he could never have.

John scowled. "Guess that answers that."

She said warmly despite her frigidness seconds ago. "I'm glad you're here."

Alec poked through the threshold not long after. Sandra's house cleared the inspection. He left with a promise that John's parole officers would be by at least twice a week for the next month to check on his progress.

John watched as Alec drove his Porsche to the gates where they came from. An elderly woman waved to him on the way out. Elderly were a rare sight in his old neighborhood. John's own grandmother lived with them a few years before she died of a heart attack.

God, he really needed a cigarette. Weed would be even better. Too much sentiment in so little time. That rule was going to be a problem.

"Hey." Sandra's thin voice sliced through him. "Are you coming inside or what?"

John nodded and followed her inside, closing the door behind him.

The house wasn't a total disaster but it definitely looked like a tornado in the form of two legs and curly hair ran around often. Brightly colored toys were all over the floor. He wasn't sure how Alec stepped on them. Dried clothes were folded neatly on her couch.

"Sorry for the mess." She said, setting her kid on the floor. He immediately sat down in front of the bulky, colored television. "I tried cleaning up as best as I could but it's hard when you have a two year old."

John didn't know much about babies but he seemed like a courteous toddler compared to the demons he encountered in grocery stores. He didn't make a peep, easily transfixed with whatever kids program was on the television.

"What's his name?"

"Dustin."

John followed Sandra to the kitchen, pulling out one of the chairs by the island and flipping it around. He placed his arms on top of the ladder back. "Sounds like some kinda fart in the wind."

Sandra pulled the chef's knife lodged in the rack, pointing it at him. "Don't talk about my son like that."

He eyed it. "My condolences."

"Sorry." She back tracked, leaving it on the counter. "I shouldn't have done that."

"It's fine." He swallowed. "I'm in one piece."

She turned one of the notches on the stove, setting it to high. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really." He let out. His stomach protested.

Sandra chuckled, opening the cupboard and pulling out a large pot. She set it under the faucet, turning the knob for the cold water. "I'm making spaghetti. It's about the only solid food Dustin loves to eat. Anything else and he'll throw a fit."

John couldn't picture it. Or, well, he could, just wasn't sure how he'd handle living with it—with Dustin. "He seems… decent."

Sandra laughed, leaning on the counter as she waited for the water to fill the pot. "He's behaving pretty good today. Not sure how I feel about it yet."

"Why?"

"Because he's going through the 'terrible two' phase. Some day's he's like that and other day's he's a miniature monster." She stopped the faucet, placing the pot on the stove top. "And, well, since we're on the topic of terrible, I'm enrolling you at Shermer High on Monday."

John scowled at her heavily moussed hair as she grabbed two red tomatoes, onions, and some other stuff he wasn't sure of. She closed the fridge with her knee. He didn't hate school. He didn't particularly _like_ it, either.

"I was thinking of quitting school and getting a job." He said honestly.

Sandra shot him a glare, rinsing all the stuff. "John, I'm not expecting you to go to college like I did but it's a good idea to get your diploma—"

"Says who?" He interrupted.

"Says _everyone_!" She opened the cupboard above her, pulling out a bowl and pan. She set another knob on medium, and placed the pan on the stove top, next to the pot. "Most full time positions won't even look at the rest of your resume if you don't graduate."

John's scowl deepened. "What about work and school?"

Sandra rolled her shoulder, slicing the stems off both tomatoes. "If you feel like you can handle it, then go for it. I don't mind. But as long as you're here, you're not quitting school. And I expect to see your progress reports and stuff whenever they come out. That's final."

John groaned loudly, letting his head fall into his arms. Fucking great. He needed a plan. He did not want to stay in school.

He left Sandra to cook and joined Dustin in the living room, lying on the couch. He used the clothes as his pillow, not caring to ask Sandra if he could. They smelled so nice, nicer than anything he'd smelled before, nicer than all of his clothes. Dustin didn't seem to care about his presence but John couldn't stomach this shitty cartoon. He somehow ended up closing his eyes and falling asleep to the sound of off-key singing and food cackling from the stove as opposed to screaming coming from the hallway, where his parents bedroom was.

At dinner, Dustin managed to get spaghetti sauce all over his face. Sandra was still trying to teach him how to eat with utensils. It wasn't working. The plastic baby fork didn't agree with Dustin's mouth. A clump of tomato somehow landed on Dustin's forehead and John had to refrain from laughing as Dustin started bawling.

"Stop laughing and pass me the paper towel!" Sandra barked.

Her anger only made the tremors worse. "Okay, okay. God, you women are so bossy."

He extended the roll. She snatched it from him with a playful glare. "Wait until you have your own. You'll be doing this every day. Then, we'll see who has the last laugh."

John shrugged, twirling the remaining pasta on his plate. It was really good—not on the same tier as the croissant he ate yesterday, but still good. Maybe he was just a little weirdly in love with George's daughter.

He wondered if they'd meet one day. He'd probably know right away it was George's kid. John might ask her out. They'd have a good time doing normal, dumb couple stuff. Maybe he might get lucky and they'd fuck. The thought of getting under George's skin made him smirk. George had the patience of a saint and John had been dying to see him crack.

Then, John thought of his father. And why he didn't do girlfriends. And those thoughts quickly faded.

"Nah, don't think I will."

Sandra held Dustin's head, trying to wipe his forehead though he wouldn't stay still. "Why wouldn't you?"

"I don't think kids are a good idea for me."

Sandra gave him that same frown from earlier, the one that reeked of sympathy. She said nothing else, though, and the rest of dinner passed by in silence. John preferred it that way.

Sandra showed him to his room on the second floor after dinner. It was a spare room she never had use for until now. A weird feeling formed in the pit of John's stomach as his eyes roamed.

It was so much more spacious than his old room. A full bed with new and clean covers. A nightstand on each side, one with a regular, old-fashioned lamp; the other had a phone, his own phone. Several dressers were already in place, not that he had that many clothes. He didn't care if he didn't have a television like most teenagers did. This was enough.

They went on a trip to buy him clothes. Macy's was still open so they wandered through the men's and juniors sections. Sandra wouldn't settle for anywhere else. She played peekaboo with Dustin to keep him occupied while John tried not to pay attention to the price tags, and the lack of associates, and how easy it would be to go into the dressing room, rip the tags off, and walk out with free shit.

After putting everything away that night—lots of denim from jeans to jackets, and flannels, and a few decent shirts, and sneakers—John stared at the bare wall. It was painted indigo; blue most of the time but dark purple at night. It reminded him of Jeremiah, whose umber skin looked blue under the moonlight. John hoped he was okay, and thought about calling him in a few days.

The walls would be covered in band posters like his old room. Eventually. He had a few in mind: Metallica, Scorpions, Motley Crüe, maybe Cream, and Deep Purple. Besides clothes, he bought a few records and cassettes. Sandra gave him her old Walkman she got for Christmas last year that she hadn't bothered using. Listening to the current Billy Joel album, John thought he'd put him on here, too. He was grateful for the Walkman the most.

John wasn't sure if he'd ever felt as content as he did right now.


	2. Chapter 2

His alarm clock went off, blaring. The sound startled him, jolting John out of blackened sleep. He reached out, grabbing nothing but air.

John lay there before slowly sitting up. His cold feet touched the rug, rubbing against it for heat. He was surprised the sweet aroma didn't wake him up first. It smelled like bacon and eggs.

That dream plagued his mind again. John thought he was done dreaming of something he'd never have. It was about a place where green ash trees grew and kids played in the pool; a place where a curly haired toddler could drop a plate and didn't have to fear setting off his father. A place John could actually call home.

But that was impossible. People like him didn't just get out without consequence. Most of them died waiting for a light that never came. And the others spent their lives rotting in jail for crimes they didn't commit.

After massaging his eyes, pulling sleep rocks out form his lids, John blinked until his blurred vision cleared. The first thing he noticed was how blue the room was.

What the fuck.

His walls were supposed to be a disgusting cream color he'd spent years trying to cover up with posters. Then, John looked at his feet. And his floor was supposed to be hardwood, not carpet! And there wasn't a single piece of clothing anywhere. Everything was so tidy. It made him queasy. It was like he didn't live here.

John punched the button on the alarm clock with a fist. His eyes wandered around again. The nightstand was also on the wrong side of the bed. And it was six twenty-nine in the morning! Why the hell was he up so early? Wasn't it Saturday?

The commotion behind the door made his heart skip. It sounded like baby babbling. And he heard someone else. A woman. There was some stomping, too.

He wanted to open the door but the horror movies he watched with Jeremiah stopped him. Black people always raged about how can white people be so stupid when all the signs were obvious. John didn't want to be another statistic more than he already was. So he started forming a plan. There was a window he could climb out of. He also thought Sullivan laced something in their weed. He'd done that before.

The light knocking nearly made him sky rocket off his bed.

"Hey. Are you up?" A female voice behind the door asked. "We _really_ need to get going if we're gonna make it on time."

John picked his brain, saying the first name he could find. "… Sandra?"

"Yeah?" She sounded confused.

"What're you doing here?"

"What're you talking about, John?" She asked after a beat. "This is _my_ house. Just because I've been out most of the weekend doesn't make it yours."

John nodded numbly. It wasn't just a dream after all. He really was away. "Yeah. Right. Okay."

"Did you fall and hit your head or something?" She asked, genuinely concerned. "Should I come in there and check for a concussion?"

He rubbed his forehead. "No."

"Are you feeling sick? Nausea? Body aches? Weak?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Oh, God." She paused. "I'm disturbing you, aren't I? Are you masturbating?"

"What?! _No_!" He exclaimed. "It's way too early in the morning! But now that you brought it up, sometimes I can't even—"

"Look. I know I'm a nurse, but you're still my nephew, and I think I can live my entire life without knowing anything else." Sandra interrupted. "I was gonna offer to do your laundry this weekend but it looks like you're doing it on your own from now on. Forever."

"You asked! I was just being honest!"

"I know, but I'm not a urologist! I don't _need_ details! The 'no' would've sufficed!"

" _Fine_. Shit! My bad!" He flounced back on the bed, staring at a ceiling he didn't know if he'd ever get used to. "So, what the fuck do you want?"

"Hey, watch your attitude and your language! There's a child running around who loves playing, ' _Monkey See, Monkey Do_ '!"

"Okay, okay! God!" He rubbed his face with his calloused palms. "It's too early in the morning for this."

"You're telling me!" She huffed irritably. "Anyway, you should've been up fifteen minutes ago and downstairs eating breakfast. I made bacon and eggs. Hm… Maybe I should've asked before hand because… I'm not sure if you even like eggs? But I think everyone likes bacon! There's always cereal and some toast."

John didn't know what to say. The last time he'd ever been woken up to homemade breakfast was a distant feeling now, locked away in a box in his mind. He couldn't recall anything on it, not the smell, now whether both his parents had been present for those times. For the last couple of years, cigarettes and an occasional Coca-Cola was served for breakfast. That wasn't exactly the most nutritious meal, but according to his father, that was as good as any hot meal.

"I'll eat it." He responded, feeling awkward and groggy and plain weird. "I just woke up. Uh… Sorry."

"Oh, okay. Good! I have to get to work by nine and we need to be in the car by seven. We're gonna get traffic on the way to school and I don't wanna catch any more traffic than I need to—Dustin, honey! _No_! Don't go down the stairs like that! Wait for me!"

John found the will to get up, padding across the room to the dresser. The top drawer was full of underwear and socks. He grabbed a white pair, and slid them on, wiggling his toes in them. The first pair of socks that didn't have holes in them.

He didn't expect an answer back but asked anyway as he rummaged in the second drawer for an undershirt, "Why don't I just take a bus?"

"You will! Starting tomorrow!" She yelled. "But I need to go with you to sign up for school."

Jon halted on the way to the closet.

Oh, God. He'd actually have to show up with Sandra like he was some five year old who couldn't even write his name yet—no offense to Dustin. It wasn't embarrassing _enough_ to be the new kid.

John scowled as he picked out long sleeve, then a short sleeve green flannel to put over it, and a pair of snug Jordache's. Un-fucking-believable. Maybe it _was_ better off as a dream.

* * *

On the outside, Shermer High didn't look that much different from Glenbrook High.

Shermer was an enclosed school, though, unlike Glenbrook—with it's numerous pillars holding up patios that were their hallways, and gated fences with school attendants always on the lookout for skipping students. Shermer High, on the other hand, looked every bit as grey and wilting as the penitentiary he'd been in and out of all his life. Except the grass looked freshly cut. And the driveway was clean of trash. And there were no fences blocking exits. But, after all, it was just another four walls, stuck with people that would find any reason not to like him.

John's eyes were hidden behind plastic sunglasses as he and Sandra, along with Dustin, prowled the halls for the main office. They'd arrived during homeroom, spotting only two students so far in the halls. John was glad for the moment though he know it wouldn't last long. Those two would tell their friends, and their friends would tell their friends, and so on. Rumors would start soon. People always loved novelties. They'd figure out where he was from, the reputation he'd left behind but would always carry with him. He wanted to try to put the past behind him, but he didn't know if he could.

The two administrators in the office looked as unhappy as ever to be back for another school year. The office aide, on the other hand, radiated. He might as well be a puppy—a very tall, scrawny puppy. His mom probably picked out that outfit—a knit sweater with geometric patterns and highwaters that probably showed off his socks. Why couldn't it be illegal for guys to wear pants that high?

The blond smiled broadly when they entered, his braces glittering. "Good morning! How may we, uh, be of assistance?"

"Good morning." Sandra replied, indicating to John with her elbow. "I'm here to enroll the big kid in big kid school."

John shot a glare at the back of Sandra's Farah Fawcett imposter hairdo.

"Sure! Uh…" He held up a finger sheepishly. "One moment."

John mulled on his lips as the kid skirted off behind the reception dest. Only two offices were here. The rest were just desks with computers, like cubicles without the walls. It was a little bit of a tight space. The office also led up to the library.

John leaned over, until the threshold no longer blocked his view. There was a class in session, though he wasn't sure what subject. Some of the girls were cute. Real cute. One girl's cupid lips chewed on the eraser end of her pencil. And he noticed another with a particularly nice set of long legs under her miniskirt. John always had a thing for dark hair and dark eyes.

But there was one girl that caught his attention the second time he looked. She was sitting in front of someone's office, waiting to be called. John slid his sunglasses to his nose to get a clearer view.

Her hair was perfect, and warm, an auburn color that reminded him of fall leaves. Full lips. Slender neck accentuated with a short Jackie-O kind of hair cut, and real pearl his mother dreamed of having. Toned legs he wouldn't mind his head being crushed in. Taking in her clothes, and the diamonds studs in her ears, she was definitely a richie—a smoking hot one at that. So spoiled, and so not his type. But a guy could dream, right?

John moved the sunglasses to the top of his head and started walking.

"Where do you think you're going, Rome-o?" Sandra held onto his denim jacket, stopping him. "Save that for another time."

John whirled, meeting her stern gaze. Dustin looked up, eyes darting between them.

"I just wanna say 'hi'…" He tried. "Shouldn't I make friends? You want me to be lonely my last year of school?"

Sandra let him go. "You don't just say 'hi' to a girl like that."

"… So, no friends?"

Sandra rolled her eyes. "Of course you can have friends, John. You might even get a girlfriend. That's not my point."

John clicked his tongue. "Well, since you mentioned 'girlfriends', I guess it's okay for me to say that I was actually gonna tell her something along the lines of—"

"I'm gonna stop you right there. I'd rather not know. I was a teenage girl once. I think I can figure it out." She shook her head, sighing in that tired adult-like sigh. "I need to remember to teach you some manners and how to properly approach girls when I get the time."

"Trust me." He leaned on the wall, hands in his pockets. "I don't need any help with that. Have I shown you my wallet?"

Sandra gave him a one up, frowning in disgust. "I'd rather not see it. And trust me, John, you'll be needing all the help you can get-especially if _that's_ —" Sandra nudged her head in the girl's direction. "—what you're aiming for. You can thank me later. And since you're doing nothing but running your mouth, hold Dustin while I finish."

"Um, no. I don't think that's a good idea." John held his hands up in defense, Sandra not listening and scooping Dustin up. "No. No. No way—"

But Sandra deposited Dustin into his arms, dumping him like he was garbage and John was the can. He caught him before Dustin could slip and fall to the floor. His brows furrowed, watching Sandra's back as she returned to the papers. What kind of mom put their faith in a stranger—regardless if they were related? They barely knew each other. John didn't even know if he was holding Dustin right.

Dustin stared at him, blinking. He'd only seen bits of Dustin after dinner and shopping that Friday. Sandra's job kept her out often, so she left Dustin with a neighbor. John found himself alone over the weekend—not that he minded the silence at all.

"Hi."

His voice was little, light as a feather. From what John gathered, Dustin seemed shy. And he actually didn't weigh much. John wasn't sure why he thought Dustin would. He was small, and really warm.

"Hi…" John managed to say back. How the fuck do you talk to a little kid?

The toddler's eyes squinted, struggling. "… John?"

"Yeah." He replied and something just clicked in his head. "You know your name?"

He smiled, showing his dimples and some teeth growing in. "Dustin!"

This fuzzy feeling pooling in his stomach over having some toddler he barely knew smile at him made John want to puke. "Can I call you Dusty?"

Both Sandra and Dustin responded, "No."

"Why not? You guys are totally ruining my vibe today."

Dustin wailed the entire car ride to Shermer High. John had his Walkman but the volume just wasn't loud enough—and he'd had that shit turned on max. Not even Slayer could block Dustin out.

Dustin blinked again. "Why's school so big?"

"Because it's high school."

"What's that?"

John thought, then sighed. He could feel Sandra's smirk without looking at her. "Big kid school. Very big kid school."

"Do I go to big kid school?"

"No, you're too little. You gotta grow first."

Dustin giggled. "I'm not little."

John looked up. "In a few years, you'll be as tall as this ceiling."

"Mommy's tall."

"Yeah, but I'm still two inches taller."

Dustin giggled again. "No, you're little. Mommy's taller."

"It's only because she's wearing heels right now."

Sandra scoffed as she slid one of the papers across the desk to Brian. He heard her mumble _you wish_ under her breath. John looked down, frowning when he saw her feet clad in penny loafers.

Dustin's eyes drifted closed. "I'm sleepy."

He put his head on John's shoulder, curling his little body further into him. Dustin's curls tickled his nose. His hair smelled like baby powder.

Honestly, he might as well contract the flu. John experienced many lows, probably too many to count. He could count on one hand the amount of highs. But nothing really compared to this feeling. It was better than the time he tried morphine. He didn't know how to feel about that.

John shuffled on his feet, trying to figure out if it was okay to even move Dustin around. "What's taking so long?"

Sandra glanced at them. "I'm going as fast as I can."

The boy had been watching the whole thing the entire time. "You don't have to stand. You can, uh, sit. There."

John shot a glare that spooked him but still listened, taking a seat. Sandra stayed standing, scribbling away and stopping occasionally to ask the kid for clarification on questions John didn't give a shit about.

He tried squaring his foot on his knee but it was a lot harder than it looked while holding a kid. Did parents just instinctively know this stuff? He didn't think he was cut out for this shit.

Peeking over Dustin's patch of hair, John saw the red head's cheeks were flushed. Her lips were in a tight line, hiding her smile. Did she see this? They say the way to a guy's heart was through his stomach. It was true for John. So maybe the one about kids and puppies being the way to a girl's heart had some truth to it, too.

Her face fell melted when the door clicked. John watched as a boy with muscles bigger than his brain came out. He was pissed, jaw clenched and looking like he had better places to be.

And the other guy that came out? John decided he hated his guts. He hadn't been wrong about Sullivan and knew he wouldn't be wrong about this guy. Why did John have this feeling he was going to see a lot of him?

The older man clutched his hips with knobby hands. His suit reminded him of something Barry Manilow would wear—rambunctious and out of style. His hawk eyes followed the athletes' every step towards the only exit.

"I don't wanna see you in here again, Andrew." He warned thinly. "I might've saved you last year from the stunt you pulled on that kid but you can kiss your LSU scholarship goodbye if you end up in here one more time."

"Whatever, scumbag." Andrew muttered with a scowl as he passed John. He reeked of sweat and tights.

The older man's eyes narrowed dangerously, having heard it. "What did you say?"

"Nothing, sir."

Andrew was gone.

 _Chickenshit_. If it were John in his position, he wouldn't have held back. Then again, John had nothing to lose except dignity.

The older man's lip curled enough to bare his teeth. He whirled on the girl. "My office."

"Excuse me, sir?" She asked hesitantly, not getting up. "I understand what procured but I don't think I should be here—"

"If it weren't for _you_ , none of this would've happened." He interrupted, pointing. "Principal Carmen being on leave doesn't give you kids the right to clownery! I will _not_ have students fighting on school grounds. You should consider yourself lucky I'm not calling your father and explaining the situation."

She blanched. "But it's not a situation, sir! Andrew was just trying to—"

" _Enough_!" She jumped, clearly unused to being talked to like that. Even Dustin nearly roused by how loud the shout had been. "My office. _Now_."

Her shoulders slumped. Defeated, she got up, dragging her feet the entire way to his room. The door closed and the rest of office fell silent. As if his curiosity about her wasn't high enough, now John _really_ wanted to know her.

"All done, Johnny-boy!" Sandra's voice snapped him out of his reverie, ruffling his hair like he was just as little as Dustin.

John grimaced, trying to slap her hand away without waking Dustin. "Now what?"

"Now you just pass him to me and fill out this paper." She shoved the paper in front of his face. He grabbed it as she carefully pried Dustin off him. "Hand it back to Brian when you're finished. Then, you start school."

" _Fantastic_."

"I thought it was, too! But I need to get going." She fixed Dustin's position. He mumbled something, his eyes fluttering between sleep and consciousness. "Behave, okay? And stay outta trouble!"

"Yeah, yeah. I got it." He waved her off. "Bye, Sandra-Dee."

"Oh, my God! _Gross_!" She almost shivered as she walked out the door. "I _hate_ that name!"

The smirk on his lips faded when his eyes landed on the sheet he'd taken from Sandra. It was full of classes. Some of the names of the core classes boggled him. John didn't have any of these in his old school. Physics? College Ready Math? What the fuck was Statistics? And who the fuck took Trigonometry? Wasn't that a college course?

John shook his head, ignoring that side and circled the electives he liked. The max choice was three but he picked six, just because. It was improbable he'd get what he wanted, but Shermer seemed like a big enough school that maybe he could get at least one he liked.

He slid the paper over the counter and sat back down. He leaned back and waited. John waited so long he almost thought about taking a nap. Then, the loud licking of a printer started going off.

"Uh, John Bender?" Brian ripped the paper from the printer, stepping through the door that separated them. "Here's your schedule."

John was in luck. Woodworking was on his schedule, along with Ceramics. The only problem was… Woodworking was his last period of the day. There went his plans for skipping.

"I hope, uh, everything's to your liking."

"Could be worse, dork."

"My name's Brian." He corrected. "Brian Johnson."

John folded the paper, placing it in his breast pocket. "My condolences."

Brian pulled his lips, shuffling on his feet. They were almost the same height. Actually, Brian might grow to be a bit taller than him soon.

"I, uh, have to show you around." He started timidly. "It's usually student council's job but they're, uh, still deciding on a president for the, you know, new school year. So it's my job for the time being."

"Lead the way."

Brian shut his mouth. "Right…"

Brian froze once they were out in the hallway. John's brow rose as Brian patted himself down. He pulled out the pockets of his high waters and almost took off his sneakers, as if whatever he was looking for would actually be in there.

Brian hurried back inside and popped back out within seconds like a weasel in a hole. The hall pass dangled around his neck, something of a medal won at a science fair.

"You should've left it." John commented as they started walking.

His light green eyes widened. "If I did then I'd get in trouble with Vernon."

"Who's that?"

"The one that was speaking to Andrew, and, uh, Claire."

"Ah. That didn't sound like _speaking_ , though."

John decided Vernon was on his list of dislikes, surpassing broccoli. Andrew seemed like he'd be fun to bug the shit out of. And Claire was obvious. He wondered if he'd ever see her again. He'd trade anything to see her pretty face over Vernon's any day.

"He's not a, you know, complete bad guy…" Brian tried. "He does a lot for us. The student body. He takes care of us."

John flicked his hair out of his face. "Doubt it."

Passing by a bulletin board, he ripped off a hanging paper. He scowled as he read through the list. It was the required reading from the past summer, books he'd never read in a million years.

John crumpled up the paper into a ball and threw it behind them.

"You shouldn't have done that… That's, uh… That's school property."

"Who cares? Being bad always feels good."

Brian's nose scrunched. "I can't understand how."

"That's 'cause you've got no idea what to do with yourself expect to be a better citizen." He stated.

He flushed. "That's not true!"

"Face it, dork. You're a parent's wet dream."

"But I don't want to be!" Brian said quietly. "That's… That's the problem, I guess."

"Tell 'em that."

Brian's jaw dropped. "Are you crazy?! My mom would throw a circus!"

"Poor baby." John said. "Then all that's left to do is take a ride on the wild side. It's real easy."

Brian grimaced. "I'd rather not."

John shrugged and Brian went off, rambling about all things school related. He talked about clubs that were still open and mentioned the brief history of the school—nothing John actually cared about.

The school newspaper on the first step of a staircase they passed by caught John's eye. The title read, _Andrew Clarke Leading Shermer High Toward Another Golden Year_. The black and white photograph under it confirmed it was the same kid from the office. God, and he _did_ wear tights. Another illegality.

Brian pointed, turning John's attention back to him. "So, if you go straight, it'll take you through the, uh, activities hall. Down that way is the cafeteria."

"What do you do for fun, Big-Bri?" John asked abruptly.

"Uh…" His bony fingers fiddled with the strings holding pass. "Well, I'm in several clubs. The uh, Latin club, the math club and the, uh, physics club—"

"I said 'fun', not 'insanity'." John clarified.

"Well, in Physics, we, um, we talk about Physics—the properties of Physics." Brian explained. "In Latin, we, uh, sit around and learn about the structure of Latin. We also speak to one another in, uh, Latin…"

All John could do was stare.

Brian blushed under the intensity. "I know it, uh, doesn't sound fun to _you_ but it's a sorta social situation and, um, enjoyable for me…"

"So it's demented and sad, yet social?"

Brian nodded weakly, continuing, "We also, you know, have a big banquet at the Hilton at the end of the year."

"You load up? You party?"

"Well, no, we get dressed up." Brian responded carefully. "I mean, we don't get, uh, we don't get high, or anything like that…"

John snorted, deciding to not take it personally. "You gotta get out more."

"Sure, that would be nice—in theory…" John beckoned him to continue with a motion of his head. "…If it weren't for my parents…"

"… So?" He asked skeptically. He honestly couldn't believe anyone's parents could be worse than his. Not this kid especially. His sweater may be ugly, and those pants tight and embarrassing, but they were polished, and wrinkle free, and still vibrant in color. Even his sneakers weren't soiled. It couldn't be all _that_ bad. "What about 'em?"

"I'm not really, uh, comfortable describing my personal, private business."

John rolled his eyes. "Big-Bri, relax. You're not even doing any _real_ business."

His eyes widened, body stiffened. "How do you know that?"

"When've you ever gotten laid?" He asked, already knowing the answer.

His mouth opened and closed, a fish grasping for water out in the air. "I've laid lots of times!"

"Name. One." John challenged.

Brian mulled on his lips, before he looked away. Ashamed. "She lives in Canada."

John's snort echoed through the vacant hall. "Sure."

"I mean it!"

John licked back his smirk. He'd take pity on him and change the subject. He'd gotten under Brian's skin enough. "What about Cherry?" Brian's brows furrowed. "That richie that was in the office?"

"You mean Claire Standish?" He corrected. "Are you, uh, talking about her and me?"

John blinked, taken aback. "Oh?"

"'Oh'?" Brian repeated, then realized and frantically waved his arms. "Oh, no! No. That would never happen… I don't think she knows I, uh, you know, exist."

"Aw. You like her, don't ya, Big-Bri?"

Brian shook his head. "No, but I guess I wouldn't mind, uh, _associating_ with her. She's, you know, part of the popular group."

"Probably a _pristine_ girl, too." John commented, remembering those legs he wouldn't mind having wrapped around him.

"I dunno what to tell you, Bender. It's not my business or anyone's business for that matter…"

"Yeah, guess it's not really anyone's business." He licked his lip. "I wanna make it my business, though."

"I don't think that's, uh, that's a good idea…" He trailed off.

"Why not?"

"Well, she's, uh, been dating this guy for about a year now." Brian explained. "He goes to a different school."

"Of course he does." He muttered. "What's he like?"

"Well dressed. Good hair. Um…" Brian paused, thinking. "Popular at his school. An athlete. And, um, he's a bit of an asshole."

John's brow rose in interest. "My level of asshole or worse?"

"I don't really know you, so I, uh, can't say." He replied. "But you don't really seem like a, you know, like an all around bad guy…"

John didn't consider himself much of a good guy.

In Glenbrook, a kid like Brian with his dorky personality and mom's sweater would've had their head in a toilet for just looking at him. John might've even taken his lunch money. He knew it was wrong but it's a dog-eat-dog world. Survival of the fittest.

And John knew it was a dumb idea. He didn't deserve to even be thinking it, but he really did want a clean slate here; to start over. In Lyons, he was on a one way street headed towards a dead end, headed towards becoming his father.

"Maybe she's got a type." John commented out loud, flicking his hair again. "You think she'd be interested in me, Brian?"

"No." Brian's blunt response caught John off guard. "I don't."

John scoffed, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "That's the last time I call you 'Brian'."

* * *

"This way, Bender." Vernon grabbed John's arm, fingers digging into his skin despite the layers of clothes. "This isn't—"

John ripped away. "Hey, keep your fuckin' hands off me! I expected better manners from ya, Dick."

Vernon clenched his jaw, slowing his pace. He let John walk ahead of him. The heels of his dress shoes on the marble sounded like chalk grating on a board. It was annoying, and rattled along with the anger pulsing through his veins.

"I should've known you'd be nothing but trouble. I should've known this would happen. Everything's just a big joke to punks like you. I should've—"

John blocked out the rest of Vernon's tantrum as they walked.

The school was as ominous empty as John expected it to be on a Saturday. Only a dumbfuck would be here. John guessed he should tattoo Captain Dumbfuck on his forehead.

If Sandra knew he was here... John wanted to sigh. He not only lied about going out job hunting today, but he'd also broken one of her rules. No drugs. He just wanted the throbbing to go away. And for his new friends not to label him as a pussy for passing up. The thought of it all coming back to her, of disappointing her, made John curl his fists in his pockets as they passed the offices. He was ready to explode any second. He couldn't say anything without the urge to scream.

John decided to make the second desk of the right row his. He dropped his sunglasses on the table, pulling out two chairs and propping his feet on one while sitting on the other.

Vernon planted himself in the front of the room, scowling and growling like some kind of starved animal, hands on his hips. "Get your feet off the seat, pal! You're not sleeping in here."

John rolled his eyes but complied—for now—making sure his feet stomped on the ground. He crossed his arms, staring at a carving someone made. _I Hate Monday's_. God, he missed his switchblade. It'd been confiscated back in Lyons.

Vernon jabbed a finger in his direction. "No talking, no sleeping, and don't _move_ from your seat. Am I clear, Mr. Bender?"

Like John had thought, he saw a lot of Vernon. A lot. Any time John walked the halls, Vernon was there. Watching. Waiting. He knew, just knew, that Vernon took a peep at his school records and found the more _incriminating_ records, not that it was hard to find. He was willing to bet his entire stash tucked safely away in his locker.

John picked at the fabric of his red scarf. "Crystal."

"Good. Maybe you'll learn a little something about yourself." He said, finally walking away to his office and leaving John alone.

John leaned far back against the chair, contemplating how he'd survive the next eight hours. And he didn't need Vernon to tell him that. The lesson was finally learned.

It'd been a long time coming, but this was the last time John would ever take the fall for someone.

* * *

"Bender! My man!" Dennis found John on the way to lunch, throwing an arm over his rigid shoulders, pulling him closer. Dennis reeked of piss and alcohol. He probably skipped third period to get high before lunch. It wasn't exactly uncommon for him. "How was detention?"

John's lip curled. It was Monday and he was still pissed off. The last thing he needed was Dennis' hounding and unwanted affection.

"About as good as licking gum off the fuckin' floor." John replied.

"Aw, Johnny!" He grinned. "Have I ever told ya that's one of my many talents?"

John rolled his eyes. "You might've mentioned it once or twice."

"Hey. So, listen..." Dennis trailed off, building the suspense, leaned closer so that their cheeks were almost touching and John's nostrils were overstimulated and invaded with the stench. How was this kid even functioning right now? "Just got word about one of the richies throwin' some kind of extravaganza this weekend. You in? It'd be a lot of dough."

"Can't." He replied immediately, curtly. "Sandra needs my help with something." Which wasn't a total lie.

Dennis hummed. "San-dra… Have I ever mentioned how good your aunt's been looking to me lately? She's a little too tall for me but I've never backed down from a challenge. If she needs anything, she should call _me_ instead. I'd love to help around that house."

John ran his tongue over his teeth, clenching his jaw tightly. He wasn't sure why it bothered him so much. "She doesn't fuck children."

"Who're _you_ calling a child?" He asked, his tone a mix of humor and riled. "I'm a real man now! I can do whatever the fuck I want."

"Seventeen doesn't suddenly make ya a man, asshole. Look at _you_." John indicated with his hand. On top of being out of his mind stoned, Dennis looked like he just rolled out of bed, long hair tangled and teeth yellow. "You can barely take care of yourself."

Dennis gave a sly look, grabbing his unimpressive package through his acid-washed jeans with his free hand. "All she's gotta do is see _this_."

"I'd gladly help your sister around, ya know." John blurted the first thing that came to his mind since common sense wasn't working with Dennis. "All she's gotta do is say when."

Dennis finally finally _finally_ retracted his arm. Despite the haze from the alcohol mixed with weed, the look in his muddy eyes spoke danger. If only Dennis knew about John's history with knives. If only. He'd direct that angry look somewhere else, if he did.

"The fuck, Bender? My little sister's off limits."

He grit his teeth. "Then stop fuckin' talking about my aunt like that."

" _Ooh_." He drawled. "Someone's being touchy-touchy today."

"Just leave me the fuck alone, Dennis."

Dennis held up his palms in mock defense before turning forward. "What's got your panties in a wad? Huh, Bender? You think you're a real man?"

John rolled his eyes, watching Dennis' sloppy peacock walk. It took everything in him not to trip him. All it'd take was a movement of his foot under his. But Dennis deserved so much more than that.

"Yo, Bennie!" Dennis called out excitedly. "Get over here!"

Bennie was already heading their way, looking like he was going towards the bleachers instead of the cafeteria.

"Denny!" Bennie and Dennis greeted each other with their secret handshake. "What's up?"

"A little ways gone."

"How're you still living, dude?" Bennie asked jokingly, chuckling. "All you ever do is get fucked up. I don't think there's been a day in the last five years that I haven't seen you this way."

Dennis shrugged. "Just trying out this new chronic shit."

"You're always trying out some new chronic shit... Yo, Bender!" Bennie held his hand up. "That mash potato shit was pretty awesome, right? All thanks to Denny's genius!"

John eyed it. "For _you_ guys."

Dennis had sprinkled boxes of powder mash potatoes by the sprinklers. And, of course, John just _happened_ to be there. And Vernon just _happened_ to show up as they went off.

Bennie's face and arm fell. "So… How was Saturday? Vernon do you in?"

John snorted. "Like hell he could."

Marcos popped up from somewhere behind John. He had some weird obsession with James Dean and always sported a similar red jacket to the one he wore in _Rebel Without a Cause_. Then again, he loved anything vintage.

"Bender!" He smiled. "How was detention, bro?"

John did everything in his power not to detonate. He was so tired of that dumb, fucking question and it'd only been less than ten minutes. None of them could take a hint or a hike. They were glued to him like a pack of ducklings. He wasn't their momma duck, he didn't want any of this shit.

"Don't bother." Dennis responded with a flick of his wrist above his head. "Bender's got his panties in a bunch today."

John shot a scowl at the back of his head, wishing he had tripped him. "It was fine."

"So, what happened?" Marcos asked curiously. "Did Carl stop by? He's done that a few times with me. He's a cool dude."

"No." Carl did. He was pretty all right in John's book, for a school janitor. He shared his stash and Carl even let him have a beer. "Don't know who he is."

"Really?" Bennie asked this time. "What about writing an essay? Vernon does that sometimes. Comes up with the weirdest shit."

Marcos gave his best impersonation of Vernon, puffing out his chest and placing his hands on his hips. "' _No less than a thousand words. And I do not mean a single word repeated a thousand times_ '!"

They all laughed, except John.

"No." At least he didn't lie about that.

"Dude, really? _Nothing_?" Marcos face twisted. "You got lucky."

If being locked in a storage closet after lunch was 'lucky' then John didn't know what to tell them.

Entering the crowded cafeteria, John grabbed what he wanted as quickly as possible, just an apple and milk. His friends did their thing and caused a huge commotion. He was sure if he didn't get out now, they'd start a fight with the jocks waiting in line.

He looked back, making sure none of them noted his absence. John ducked away, avoiding the eyes of the cashiers and headed outside.

Fall was on the small list of things he found pretty. Leaves falling from the boxelder trees were shades of oranges and reds that were the same colors of the sunset and Claire's hair. He hadn't seen her since his first day. They had no classes together, not even classes near each other—not to mention they were from completely opposite spectrums. He still held onto useless hope he'd get to talk to her one day.

Weaving through the milling courtyard, John wasn't shocked to see _her_ out here. She occupied a table on her own, right under a tree. There were leaves on her clothes and in her hair. He'd been thinking over the weekend about making new friends. Maybe this was his shot. John wasn't sure what her name was, though. All he had was the fact that they shared second period English. She sat at the opposite end of the room due to assigned seating.

"So!" John announced, sitting on her same bench but at the edge, leaving plenty of space between them. He'd always in an in-your-face type of guy, but he didn't want to scare her off. "Where're your pals?"

She didn't answer. Purposely ignoring him or lost within her reading. John's head tilted, trying to get a better look at the cover. He bit into the green apple, revealing in the bitter, juicy taste. He actually knew what she was reading. Mr. Tierney assigned them the first three chapters of _Tender in the Night_ for a quiz this Friday.

"That for Tierney?" She squeaked like some fucking furry tree animal. John didn't know what to think of it. "Hm. So you don't talk..."

He tore the milk carton open and _fuck_! He grabbed two percent instead of chocolate. Was this a sign of an uncanny week to come?

She didn't have any lunch in front of her besides a can of Coca-Cola. She must've gotten it from the machine in the teacher's lounge. Nice. That meant she had _access_ to places. The flap of her bag was open, though, and he saw plastic bags of food. Sandwiches. And a bag of Doritos torn open on top of all the school supplies. A Chemistry textbook. Two composition books. A binder. And… John squinted, leaning in slightly. A sketchpad? Curiosity gnawed on him and he reached out. She was too preoccupied.

He'd only touched the tip of the hardback before she slapped his hand away, without so much as looking. It didn't sting but he still retracted it.

"Ah!" John exclaimed pleasantly surprised by her reaction. "So she's not a total gargoyle!"

She didn't offer anything. Not another movement, not another peep.

John took another bite of his apple with a scowl, the bitter taste reflecting his bitter mood. Being a pest wasn't fun when he didn't get a reaction. She probably didn't even speak human.

But the silence between them wasn't weird. He actually liked it, it didn't need to be filled with empty words. The breeze came, blowing through the almost leafless trees and John knew, sometimes, good things came in unexpected forms. They may not know each other but she seemed fine with him being here.

Maybe on the inside, Shermer High was different.


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh, no, honey! What's wrong?" Sandra wailed from the kitchen where the other telephone was located, lodged on the wall by the fridge. "Do you need a ride to the Emergency Room? …No, that's all right, I'm more worried about you! Please, don't forget to keep hydrated! …Yes, take it easy on your stomach…And don't forget to check your temperature again in a few hours…"

He tuned out the rest of Sandra's medical advice, but John had an idea of what was coming. Hearing Sandra's customer service voice was always an experience with varying results. John covered Dustin's ears, just in case.

"Johnny…" Dustin squirmed, his face pinching, trying to pry John's hands off. "Stop…"

"Hang tight."

Dustin pouted, slumping his shoulder's slow, leaning back against the cushion in that spoiled-child manner.

"… No, no, no! Thank you so much for letting me know! …You take care, too! I'll call tomorrow to check up with you…Okay. Bye-bye!" Sandra slammed the phone back in its socket, not once, but three times. " _God dammit_!"

"Any harder and you'll break the phone again." John called out. "Second one in three weeks. I'm sure Michael'll be happy to see ya again—"

"Shut up."

"—you really should stop leaving the guy hanging." John continued. "His pinning's kinda pathetic."

"Shut. Up. John!" Sandra's holler made John smirk. "For the last time, I don't like him! Just because he likes me doesn't mean I'm obligated to go out with him!"

"I didn't say anything about you liking him." John countered.

"You are so—"

John let Dustin free. "Ah, ah. Be careful what you say, Sandra-Dee. There's a child running around that loves playing ' _Monkey See, Monkey Do_ ', ya know."

He could imagine Sandra's red face, her mouth opening and closing, holding back insults. "I so do _not_ need this from you right now."

The smirk spread into a wide grin. It wasn't his fault for telling the truth. Sandra clearly liked the store clerk, just wouldn't give the guy the time of a day or a proper chance. John couldn't figure out why.

Turning around, John peeked over the top of the couch. Sandra was pacing around in the kitchen. Her manicured fingers massaged her temples. She looked so tired—shoulders slouched, visible bags under her eyes—but was still ready to go, dressed in her flowery pattered work scrubs.

"So, what's up?"

"Parent troubles." Sandra responded, fingers rubbing her short chin before she pulled the hair tie off her wrist.

"Like…?"

She sighed, long and loud, grabbing her hair in one hand and securing it into a pony tail with the other. "Well, I completely forgot about Emma leaving on a cruise in a few hours. She'll be gone for two weeks. I can't believe I completely forgot! And then, Sally finally called me back just to tell me she's with a high fever. I'm thinking about passing by before work but I now need to figure out who to leave Dustin with."

"You should consider maids, like those chicks from the old age that took care of all the royal babies." John offered sincerely. "Less you gotta do, less you gotta worry about."

She shook her head, frowning. "I would never. Dustin's my kid. I want to take care of him as much as I can. I only leave him with a babysitter because I have no choice. I don't have anyone else."

John look over his shoulder, down at Dustin. The toddler was by his side—a little too close for comfort—watching the latest _Alvin and the Chipmunks_ episode. He loved Theodore. Dustin even adopted green as his favorite color.

"What about his old man?"

Sandra went to the fridge, opening it slowly. Opening it too fast caused some of the magnets holding Dustin's drawings to fall. She took out the half empty carton of orange juice, closing the fridge gently.

"You mean L-i-a-m?" She asked sharply. "What about him?"

John twisted his lips. Lashing out didn't stop at his father or John. Sandra wasn't quick to anger like them, but those rare time he'd seen her like that led John to believe it was an unfortunate family trait he'd never escape from.

"He's a deadbeat—" John treaded carefully. "—isn't he?"

Sandra drank straight from the carton. John was glad he hated orange juice. "You're a perceptive kid. Have I told you that yet?"

"I try not to be." John muttered, balancing on his knees so he could fold his arms on the couch top. Sandra continued to drink from the carton, the way rich chicks sipped from a bottle of wine.

She didn't keep alcohol in her house—only bottles of rubbing alcohol. John had grown up knowing the substance to be his father's breath freshener. His old man wasn't complete without one beer in the morning, and God help them when they ran out. Sandra didn't smoke either. She didn't do anything except go to work, come home, and spend whatever time she had with Dustin. It was weird to him.

Didn't she have anything else to do besides be here? She was still young, not even touching the big four-oh yet, still attractive enough that men fell at her feet whenever they went out even if she was taller than most of them. John wasn't sure what women her age did but shouldn't… He didn't know… Shouldn't she be out and about doing whatever almost forty-year olds do?

"So… What's the story?"

"The long version or the short one?"

John flicked his wrist around. "I think you can skip the introduction about how you thought he was the prince charming personified and get to the fallout."

Sandra looked pointedly at the living room, gauging if the television was loud enough. "Maybe another time. The trees have ears."

John groaned, turning around and flopping down. Dustin whirled his attention back to the television. The credits were starting to roll.

Without a word, Dustin hopped from the couch, passing the coffee table where he left the remote. He stopped at the racks full of VHS's. Sandra had the strangest love for Disney animated movies, though John couldn't recall seeing her watch any of them.

Dustin pulled the cases out one by one, placing them all across the floor. He couldn't read yet but he could identify the ones he knew just by the covers.

"I'm not sure who else to call." Sandra said out loud. She talked to herself a lot. "Alena, maybe? Wow, I haven't spoken to her in forever! Who knows what she's up to? Maybe I could call Jeffrey… He babysits dogs, though. Babysitting animals isn't the same as watching a kid…"

It slipped out. "I can do it."

"Hm. There's always Chris… I think he works today, too—I'm sorry. Did you say something?"

John inhaled deeply, speaking louder and clearer. "I'll do it."

He didn't get a response.

Dustin opened the case for _The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh_. John crossed his arms and put his head back.

"Can we watch something else?" John asked, trying very hard for it to not come out as a whine. " _G. I. Joe_ 's about to come on."

"No." Dustin responded adamantly. "I wanna watch Pooh."

He sighed. Not again. How did Sandra, and his babysitters, and all the parents in the universe, put up with this?

Dustin crawled over to the television, squeezing the bulky cassette into the VCR. He pressed rewind and changed the input from the television. Then, Dustin stood up, coming back to the couch.

"Eeyore!"

John helped him up, and Dustin sat by his side again. "Tigger's better."

"No!" Dustin shouted. "Eeyore!"

Sandra poked her head by the arm rest and John almost jumped. "Did I hear you right?"

"I said what I said." John replied. "Tigger's like me. We're one of a kind. Eeyore is—"

"Not _that_! I mean, you'd willingly spend a whole Saturday, maybe even all day Sunday, with your little cousin? Watching movies with him? Play with him? Feed him? Start potty training him for me?"

John held his palms up, shrugging. "How hard can it be?"

Sandra's brow rose. "It's not the same as when I go to the store for a few minutes, John. I'll be gone. I might not even be back until Monday."

"Obviously." John replied. "Just tell me what to do and I'll do it. Leave me a list or something."

"Are you sure?" Sandra hesitated. "It's the weekend. You should be doing stuff with your friends. You should be at the fair or the arcade… I… I don't know what else teenage boys do now-a-days…"

"But I thought you were a teenage girl once and could guess." Sandra flicked him on the forehead. "Ouch! Your nails fuckin' hurt!"

Sandra pointed. "Watch it!"

He rubbed the spot that stung. "I'm serious, Sandra, it won't kill me to watch him. Tin-can's good company, anyway."

 _Better company than most_ , John wanted to add but didn't.

Those new friends he'd made ceased to exist the same day John ditched them at lunch. That was over two week ago. His attitude and personality were taken personally. Good, he was more than fucking fine with it. He could walk the road alone. There were only a handful of a months until graduation anyway.

And the only other people he'd consider friends were questionable at best. One was a mute whose name he still hadn't figured out no matter how much he paid attention to roll call for once. And he'd been ignoring Brian Johnson ever since the morning he'd showed him around Shermer. Brian always made it a point to greet John whenever they saw each other in the hallways—apparently a lot of their classes were nearby one another—but John pointedly ignored him. Brian gave up.

John's desire for a clean slate couldn't beat his stupid pride. A clean slate meant not tacking 'Kick Me!' notes on Brian's back, or stealing Brian's clothes during gym, or stuffing Brian's locker with dog shit and whatever else he and his buddies could get their hands on and watching it explode when Brian opened his locker. A clean slate meant Brian—and any other dorks like him—being left perfectly alone.

Besides, there was no way guys like John associated with guys like Brian. There was no way they enjoyed each other's company. And there was absolutely no fucking way they had anything in common besides walking the same halls.

The only real friend John ever had was back in Lyons; hopefully _hopefully_ staying out of trouble, working towards that basketball scholarship he wanted. He wanted to call Jeremiah but every time John reached for the phone his fingers wouldn't dial the numbers. It wasn't like he didn't remember. He had Jeremiah's number committed to memory but the thought of talking to him drenched him in cold sweat.

What was up with him lately? Ever since quitting weed, he was constantly waking up from nightmares. Nightmares about being trapped in a place so dark he couldn't remember what color was. Nightmares about dying slowly, painfully, grubby hands wrapped around his neck, suffocating him. His father. Many nightmares about his father. John hated feeling this way, hating waking doused in sweat and his hair clinging to his face, his heart hammering like it would burst; like there was just no end.

Why was he feeling this way when everything was normal? Like at any second, he would finally wake up from this dream and see it'd had all been fantasy. He'd have to go through another day, just trying to survive. Because guys like him don't live, they just survive. He wasn't even sure how he got out of bed every morning now. It was getting harder, weighing on him like boulders.

Sandra stared, searching his face, then shook her head. "Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me something?"

"What's there to tell?" John put his bare feet up on the coffee table, one foot on top of the other. "Every time I try, you shut me out."

"That's not true." She said, brows knitting. "You never try talking to me. You're the one who shuts out."

"You haven't been around." He deflected. "How can I?"

"That's not fair, John." Sandra said in such a motherly tone it made his heart clench. "I know it doesn't make total sense to you now but it will when you get older. I'm doing everything I can to give Dustin the life he deserves… And now you. I'm trying to give you the life you should've had even if it's a little too late… You didn't pop out of my stomach like Dustin but you're still my responsibility as much as he is."

John clenched his jaw. He didn't expect her to retaliate with kindness. He was so accustomed to his anger being thrown back in his face in the form of back hands, insults, or both. Sandra was clearly furious with her grim eyes and rigid posture but she chose a different route. If she could do it then maybe there was hope for him. He never wanted to be his father.

"I didn't ask to be here." He said quietly.

"I know you didn't, but someone thought you should have a chance." She said gently. "That's why you're here. No matter how you feel, someone cares. They really do care."

John thought about George. He hadn't thought of George since the first day here. George just wanted him off the streets. John was the problem child they'd been trying to get rid of for years. Was he happy now that John was gone? He imagined so. But he relished in the idea that George was probably bored without him.

He scoffed, crossing his arms. "Yeah. Right."

"John?" She tried. "Have you ever considered seeing a therapist? Did they ever make you go to group sessions in p-r-i-s-o-n?"

He turned to her with a sneer. "That's only for crazy folks. I snuck outta there any chance I got. They wanted us to hold hands, and talk about our feelings, and expect us to sing Kum-ba-yah."

"Oh, Johnny-boy…" Sandra trailed off sweetly, ruffling his hair which he hated so much and she did it so often. "For a smart kid, you can be unbelievably dense. You have so much to learn about people and life."

John glared at nothing. "Like what?"

"Like how even the most normal looking people—people you'd never think in a million years would ever need it—see therapists on occasion."

"What for?"

"Even rich people have problems, John." She took a sip from the carton. "It's not unheard of. You can go to therapy for something as simple as being stressed about school."

"They should live a day in my shoes." He countered. "Then they can talk about _real_ problems."

Sandra sighed. "You're looking at it the wrong way, but I don't expect you to know how to look at it another way. Just know that everyone needs help sometimes. Everyone, even you."

"I don't." He flopped back down, facing the television. Eeyore was on screen which made Dustin clap excitedly.

"All right, I'll drop it." She paused. "I'm just worried about you. You haven't been out of the house since the Saturday you went looking for jobs."

"Everything's peachy." John averted.

"I forgot to ask before. Did you find anything?"

"No." John stopped, trying to come up with something. "I figure since I can't find anything out there then I gotta do something here. When you think about it, it works in both our favors."

"Are you sure? Positive? Positively-positive?"

John waved her off. "Yes. Positive."

"Okay." Sandra paused, he could feel the smile at the back of his head. "Thank you, John. I'll pay you this coming Friday."

He shrugged, though she couldn't see, and heard her light footsteps going up the stairs. The sickening part was that he'd do it for free.

* * *

A gust of cold air passed making his hair tickle his nose and cheeks.

John stirred awake, shivering. His head felt so heavy and he was exhausted. He shouldn't be. He'd napped in all three of his classes today and now lunch.

Babysitting for three weekends straight was starting to take a toll on him. Sandra was also starting to dump Dustin on him during weekdays. And Dustin was also beginning to get comfortable sleeping in his bed. He was as much of a little tornado in sleep as he was awake.

God, is this what it was like being a parent? Being exhausted to the bone all the time? Walking like a zombie throughout the day? Having all these fucking cartoon lines stuck in your head?

John groaned into his arms.

"Stop moving."

His nose scrunched in confusion. John opened his eyes, finding the direction he thought he heard the voice come from. It was her that spoke—the girl he thought to be mute.

Now that John finally had a chance to see her face, he realized she was a looker. Messy, brown hair paired with whimsical, brown eyes and a heart-shaped face. The only make up she wore was around her eyes, imitating a raccoon. She looked ticked off like he'd just ruined something of hers that was special. The sketchpad he'd tried several times to peak at was on her lap.

"… You drawing me?"

Her face contorted. She quickly hugged the pad to her chest. "No."

Both edges of her palms were smudged in black, providing the answer she wouldn't admit and the answer John already knew. She wouldn't look at his face either. Embarrassed to be caught like a child that'd done something bad.

"Then why can't I move?"

She mulled her lips, fingers drumming on the hardback. "You're tolerable when you're not awake."

John laughed, feeling it deep in his stomach. "That's a nice way of saying I'm annoying."

"Not entirely." She admitted quietly.

John smirked while rubbing his face and eyes. "So… Am I ever gonna get a name?"

She took a moment, still staring into a distance far away that John couldn't see. He didn't think she'd speak again. Her voice was nice while it lasted. At least it confirmed she spoke human.

"Allison." She finally said. "You're John."

His brows rose in surprise. "I'm flattered. That's the first time a girl knows my name before I know hers."

"Vernon says your name a lot." Allison deadpanned. "You guys fight like cats and dogs."

His face fell. "Ah."

John placed his cheek on his palm, frowning. He watched the people in the courtyard. Most of the band geeks hung outside, parading and practicing. It drove him inside before but he was used to it now. The television production kids were also around, trying to figure out their portable cameras that were way too big for their frames. Some art kids were on a grassy knoll, and John wondered why Allison never sat with them. She belonged there. Her too dark, loose fitting clothing and quiet personality would be a perfect match.

"You don't like 'em, do you?"

Allison followed his gaze, and shook her head. "No. They don't like me."

"Why not?"

Allison shrugged, squeaking. She went back to whatever she was drawing.

One day, he'd understand her language. Or maybe he did. All he had to do was think about Dennis and his crew. They'd only been friends with him for the havoc he could cause. And, of course, drugs.

"Have I mentioned how much I fucking hate being the new kid?"

"It's high school." Allison replied. "Everybody loves a new toy… They always need a new thing to play with."

John scowled, brushing his fingers through his thick hair. He needed a haircut. "Yeah? Well, I don't get played."

Allison shrugged again. She closed her sketchpad and shoved it inside her messenger bag with the mountain of other stuff inside. She took a sip from her Coca-Cola.

He'd noticed her infatuation with all things sugar. She always had pixie sticks on her. Always. And she always came up with the most disgusting food combinations. She once had Cheetos and milk. And another day, Doritos and chocolate pudding. Just last week, she brought grilled cheese and decided to stuff Frosted Flakes in it. Those were the times John left their table early.

Another gust passed through them, making him pull his legs together and stuff his hands in his pocket. God, he hated winter so much. The weather report said it'd start snowing soon. That meant blankets and blankets of snow as white as the sugar Allison always ate would cover every square inch of everything. Cars, roads, roofs, sidewalks, those grassy knolls those kids were sitting on would be _covered_. And all the snow meant he'd have to wake up earlier to shovel Sandra's driveway… Which meant the stairs leading down would probably be slippery… And he'd fall on his ass… And he'd have to worry about the sharp icicles dangling from the porch roof… And not to mention all the fucking Christmas music that'd start playing on the radio…

God. He hated winter. Absolutely hated it.

John flicked his hair out of his face. "So, can I see when you're done?"

"No."

John's lip curled into a deeper frown. He could've been angry but at least now there was a name to a pretty face.

* * *

This was Dustin's first time watching _Bambi_.

Despite Sandra's collection, there were a few Dustin hadn't seen. She couldn't find the time to show him so it fell on John. Great. Just another weekend. In an effort to not watch that stupid Winnie the Pooh movie again, John decided they should flip a coin. Tails gets to choose. John won.

Dustin sat on the floor, arms crossed and pouting. "No fair!"

"I won fair and square, twice in a row."

Dustin's frown deepened. John popped the cassette out of the case and into the VCR.

He wasn't sure why he picked this movie. By the cover alone, it looked okay. They watched _Peter Pan_ last Saturday and John wasn't afraid to say he found it likable. Peter was a little asshole. John was all for it.

Almost ten minutes in and John didn't have much of an opinion yet. The forest animals gathered around the doe, watching curiously. John thought it was creepy until they kept referring to Bambi in royalty terms, like 'young prince'.

Dustin seemed to like it, though. Bambi trying to walk for the first time sent Dustin into a fit of giggles. When Bambi started walking through the forest on his own the next day in the movie, Dustin went into interrogation mode.

"What's that?"

"A squirrel."

"A… squirrel?"

"The one holding the acorn. Or nut. I can't tell. They're the ones we see at the park, climbing trees."

"Ooh." He paused. "What's his name?"

"I dunno, Dusty." John replied, pulling one leg up and hugging his knee. "It's my first time watching this."

Dustin shook his head. "That's not my name, John."

"Sorry, Tin-can."

"That's not my name either!"

John tried not to laugh. That'd only make things worse. "Okay, okay."

Thumper, Bambi's bunny friend, and sisters ended up finding Bambi on his walk. Thumper decided to guide Bambi around, showing him what was what. They came upon a bed of flowers and Thumper told Bambi he should sniff them.

Bambi sniffed through a bed of flowers, his nose touched something. Another animal. Thumper was cut off before he could reveal what Flower really was.

"Flower's so cute!" Dustin cooed.

"Flower's not cute." John denied, grimacing. "He's a skunk."

"A skunk?"

"Yeah, a skunk." John repeated. "They stink."

"Then take them a bath!" Dustin countered.

"It's not that simple, Tin-can. They're always stinky. Doesn't matter if ya wash 'em…" John explained. "It's not like having a dog."

"I don't like dogs!" Dustin announced. "They step all over me and they drool. I like cats! They're soft and they make funny noises."

John smiled. "I like cats, too. You should ask your mom for one for Christmas."

Dustin smiled. "I want a big, fluffy cat that's white and blue eyes!"

"Like Duchess and Marie from the cat movie?"

He nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! But if we get Duchess and Marie, we have to get O'Malley, and Toulouse, and… and Ber… Ber…"

"Berlioz." John said though he probably pronounced it wrong. French sounded like a mouthful of a language to learn. "That's a lot of cats, Dustin. You sure you want that many?"

"I want lots of cats when I get big!" He replied cheerily. "And I want Flower-the-skunk!"

John gave a tight lipped smile. "Your mom wouldn't let you have Flower."

Dustin frowned, crossing his arms. "Why not?"

"I just told ya! They're stinky."

Dustin's shoulders slumped. "But I want it…"

"What about a black and white cat?" John offered. "You can call it Flower."

Dustin considered this and smiled. "Okay!"

This movie was absolutely boring. What made him think it'd be remotely decent? He should've suffered through watching Winnie the Pooh again instead.

John leaned his head back on the cushion, closing his eyes. He wasn't going to sleep. There was no way with Dustin awake. He couldn't even try with all the annoying trumpets and cymbals that played every time Bambi—or any other character—so much as moved a single step. The ending couldn't come fast enough.

"Who's that?" Dustin suddenly asked.

John opened his eyes, watching the way Bambi lit up when the stag peered down at him. He remembered the stag from the beginning of the movie, watching as Bambi was brought into the world.

"I think that's Bambi's dad."

Dustin's brows furrowed, peering up at John. "What's 'dad'?"

John's froze, heart pounding in his ribcage. His throat suddenly felt about as dry as the Atacama Desert. He fucked up. He fucked up so bad. Sandra was always careful never talk about Dustin's father. Not even mention him or words associated with him.

Telling the truth—no matter if people believed him or not—wasn't something he shied away from. But this was so different. He'd never been stuck with an innocent, yet loaded, question. If he lied, it'd come back to him. He already lied to Sandra about Saturday detention… But he didn't think he could lie to Dustin. Never Dustin.

Dustin waited patiently, blinking those brown eyes he must've gotten from Liam. John thought about all the things he wanted from his father.

"A dad's a guy who takes care of you. He teaches you new things every day. He listens to what you say, feeds you, clothes you, takes you to the park. He'll hang your drawings on the wall."

"Ooh." He cooed. "You're my dad, John."

It was so fucking pure. It broke the heart he didn't think he had anymore.

"No." He said, torn between laughing and crying. "No, I'm not."

Dustin's head tilted the way a Husky's would. "Who's my dad?"

This was definitely not his place. How could he tell a two year old his father didn't want him? John couldn't. There were no words. Usually, nothing could get him to shut up when he had things to say. But he couldn't do that to Dustin. Never Dustin.

Thinking about all the reasons why Liam wanted nothing to do with Dustin made everything hurt, because there was no reason. None. Dustin was an awesome kid—so full of life, always giggling, always asking a hundred-and-one questions because he was just so curious to know more than what his little mind could retain. How could this guy wake up one morning and decide he wanted nothing him and leave Sandra to do it all by herself?

One of the things he'd thought about often was how better his life would've been if his own father had just left—left his mother alone, left him alone. But John was wrong. It wouldn't have been any better. Not for him. His father taught him all the things not to do.

"Look." John pointed, thankful for the distraction. Thumper was trying to teach Bambi to slide across the frozen river. "Flower's back."

Dustin's attention averted just like he wanted. "I like Flower! And Thumper. Thumper's funny."

"Yeah, me too." John smiled. "Are you hungry?"

Dustin nodded, humming his response.

John got up, heading to the kitchen. He breathed a huge sigh of relief. But he knew it wouldn't last. Sandra would find out.

There was nothing in the fridge. Well, there was, but nothing Dustin liked. He may love the color green but he hated vegetables. They'd eaten all the left over pizza earlier. And the only other solid food Dustin liked was spaghetti. John didn't know how to make that.

He tried calling Sandra at work. Nothing. The person at the reception desk said she was busy with some surgery. Sandra left no cash behind for another delivery and John didn't have any money.

John blew a raspberry. Now what? He should call someone else, but who? Allison? Yeah. Allison was a girl. She knew how to cook. She had to. He went through the cabinets, trying to find the yellow pages.

"Dustin?"

"Yeah?" He immediately responded.

"What're you doing?"

"Watching the movie!"

"Okay."

John found it in the drawer by the fridge. He opened it, opening it up to the J section without realizing. A wave of something coursed through him. Ever since the day Allison finally spoke, he'd been debating on trying to talk to Brian. Wasn't Brian's last name Johnson?

His index finger trailed down the pages. There were a couple of Johnson's. Mardock, Peyton, Jordan, Brian R.. Wait. Brian had his own phone line?

John dialed the number.

A woman answered. "Hello?"

"Hi." So much for his own phone line. "Can I speak to Brian Johnson?"

"Who's this?"

"John Bender, from school."

"I'm sorry, but my son doesn't know anyone by the name of John Bender." She replied snobbishly and his eyes narrowed, glaring at the back of the couch. "May I ask why you're calling?"

"I need to ask him a question."

"About what?"

John gripped the receiver. "Can you just put him on the phone?"

"Sorry, but Brian's not in right now." And she hung up.

John stared at the receiver, blaring the dial tone. Where would Brian be on a Sunday night except at home, studying for some Physics exam? Or coming up with something for the Latin club? Or his SATs? Then, a light bulb went off in his head.

John went back to the living room, watching the rest of _Bambi_ with Dustin.

"Where's the food?"

"Not ready."

A million questions and a life time later, the movie was finally over. Dustin liked it. But he still liked Winnie the Pooh more. He crawled over to the stacks to find it.

John picked up the receiver, clearing his throat before dialing. He hadn't needed to use his vocal range in so long.

The same woman's voiced pick up again. "Hello?"

He mustered up his best airy voice. "Yes, is the Johnson residence?"

"It is." She responded. "May I ask who's calling?"

"My name is Paul Newman. I'm a recruiter for LSU. Your son sent in an application a few months ago and I'm calling to follow up." He stopped, then quickly added, "How're you this evening, ma'am?"

"I'm doing fine, thank you, but LSU?" She asked out loud, confused. "I don't remember Brian putting an application towards Louisiana…"

"Well, he did." He pushed. "I'm just calling to follow up with a couple of questions and to talk about what our school has to offer."

"Okay, what'll they be?"

"Sorry, ma'am, but this conversation is only for Brian Johnson."

She surprisingly relented. "I'll transfer you over."

"Thank you!"

"Hello?" Brian answered a few moments later, as equally confused as his mom was earlier.

John went back to his normal voice. "What's up, Big-Bri?"

"… Bender?" He said breathlessly. Something crashed in the background. "I thought I heard your name earlier… but, uh, did you really impersonate a college recruiter just now?"

"Sure did!" John glanced at the living room and saw nothing out of the ordinary. "She hung up on me earlier. Needed to try a different approach."

Brian chuckled nervously. "Sorry. She, uh, does that…"

"So," He leaned on the counter, having a clear view of the back of the couch. Dustin was still trying to find the Pooh VHS. "You mean to tell me you got your own phone line but your mom picks up the phone for you?"

Brian chuckled again. "Yeah. She, uh, she needs to know who's calling first. It's an approval thing, I guess. Phone's are a privilege."

"Well. I guess you weren't wrong about your mom throwing a circus." John said. "I get why you're so hesitant to talk about your parents now."

"It's not, uh, really just that." Brian said hesitantly.

"Any chance she's tapping the line?" John asked curiously.

"She'd be tearing my door by now if she was."

"Crazy bitch." John let out, sitting on the counter by the stove. "I can't imagine."

"Yeah…" Brian trailed off awkwardly. "So, why're you, you know, calling me?"

The first thought that came was the first thing he said. "To apologize."

"For what?"

"For giving you the cold shoulder." John watched his dangling feet. "I've got no excuse other than I'm an asshole. I'm working on it."

"Thanks." Brian finally said after a brief pause. "I appreciate the apology."

John rubbed his face. "And I know this is probably the most dumb fucking question on the face of the Earth but you know how to make spaghetti, by any chance?"


	4. Chapter 4

"John?"

An urgently tiny voice roused him. He'd been on the brink of falling back asleep after processing the really good dream he'd woken up from only a few minutes ago. Dammit, there went that. Once Dustin was up there was no stopping him. John groaned heavily, rolling to his side, curling farther into his thick, checkered cover.

"Jo-o-hn!" Dustin blared like an alarm clock. "Wake up!"

He flinched, his eyes barely halfway open. There was sunlight through the bleariness, warm and radiant. It poured through the blinds, and annoying as fuck, illuminating the rich grey of his bedspread, falling onto the beige carpet in perfect, slim rectangles. He couldn't measure time by the position of the sun but it was clearly too early in the morning for this shit.

He'd had such a nice dream too, it'd been a drastic change from all his nightmares. It was about Claire, his fingers through her sunset hair splayed across his sheets, her perfect posture coming undone... He'd caught her eye in the lunchroom a few times since his first day.

She wasn't actually hard to find—just follow the trail of the future MLB athletes and runway models, and there she was—in her own hierarchy of school politics and money trees. It only lasted a few seconds, an electric current sweeping through him, but he knew Claire wouldn't get up. And there was no way he'd ever think to go over there. He knew better. But… the fact that she held his gaze every time said something, right?

The bed shifted, dipping somewhere behind him. "Get up!"

John mushed the pillow over his head. "Go away, Dustin."

The bed rocked, Dustin probably bouncing on it. How and why did little kids have so much energy in the morning? "John!"

"No."

Little hands gripped John's shoulder over the cover, trying to shake him. "But Santa ate the cookies! He's here! We need to see him!"

"He's not here anymore." John brushed him off, hiking the material higher until he was completely immersed. "Gimme two more hours."

"No, now-w!" Dustin tried pulling the covers but John held onto it. "Let's go!"

"I don't wanna."

"Jo-o-hn!" Dustin whined. "Please?"

"No."

"But John! The presents'll get cold! We have to go now-w!"

"They won't get cold, Dustin. Go open them without me."

"But! But, John!" Dustin stammered. "You have presents, too!"

His eyes opened, greeted by grey lighting. He was pretty sure there'd been no presents addressed to him. Then again, he hadn't bothered checking when he helped Sandra arrange them under the blue, gold, and white themed fir—all different shapes and sizes for Dustin.

John lifted the pillow off, peering over his shoulder, meeting Dustin's eager eyes. "He did?"

Dustin's head bobbed vigorously. He used both grubby hands to demonstrate the size. "Yeah! It's _this_ tall!"

"That's pretty tall."

"Yeah! What do you think it is?"

"I don't know—"

"Hey, Johnny-boy…" Sandra yawned, rubbing her eyes, balancing herself on the threshold of his wide-open door. "Why don't you go downstairs and find out?"

Dustin grabbed John's limp arm in both hands. "Yeah! Let's go-o!"

"God, it's too early in the morning for this." Sandra muttered, her voice dripping with sleep.

Dustin descended off the bed, making a dash for Sandra. Tugging on her tightly knobbed satin robe, he propelled her towards the stairs. "Mommy, letsgoletsgoletsgo."

She yawned again, letting herself be pulled. "Okay, okay, slow down, Dustin." She flicked her wrist, trying to wave at John or command him or something like that. It was too disoriented to tell. "Put on a shirt and meet us downstairs."

He did, and in about five minutes, Sandra was examining his hazardously wrapped box, her still sleep-ridden eyes stuck between wonder and confusion. She shook it lightly, the contents jingling.

"Don't shake it so much!"

She jumped at his outburst. "Sorry! … What is it, though? It sounds fragile..."

"Just open it."

"Okay, okay! _Geez_! What's up with you this morning?" Her lips twisted, slinking further in the loveseat. "I know it's early but it's Christmas! You're supposed to be happy."

"I hate—" John made sure Dustin wasn't paying attention, whispering, "—Christmas, for reasons you can guess."

Sandra's lips parted, then closed; her mouth opting for a softer approach that reached her eyes. "You really didn't have to get me anything, John."

"I didn't." He waved her off, reaching for the hot chocolate Sandra made that he'd set by his side. "I made it."

He swallowed the scalding sugary content but his throat still dried as Sandra peeled the shimmering red wrapping, having uncharacteristic second thoughts about this gift. Maybe this was a stupid idea but it was too late now; she was cutting the taped box with her pinky nail, opening the flaps. Sandra gingerly lifted the vase out, prying the nest of bubble wrapping away.

Her mouth curved into a small smile, the kind of smile she gave to Dustin whenever he handed her another stick figure, out-of-the-lines colored drawing. She twirled it in her hands, studying the funky, geometric patterns with inquiring eyes that Dustin clearly got from her.

"It's beautiful!" She cooed. "I love it."

It'd been a project for Ceramics they could take home once they finished. John's actually ended up being one of the best in all of Mr. Ryan's classes and he wanted to keep all the best projects as examples for next year. But John wouldn't hand it over. And he wanted to say he thought of her while making it, because he had no money for some expensive gift like getting her the Gucci watch she desperately wanted, and that he was good at building, and that it was least he could do after everything she continued to do for him.

John let the compliment roll off his shoulders. "Since Michael's always giving ya flowers, I decided you should have a place to put 'em, ya know?"

Sandra ignored the comment. "Did you paint it, too?"

"I got a friend to do it."

"He's very talented." She murmured.

"She."

" _She's_ very talented. You both are."

"I guessed she was decent." John picked a fuzz from his fleece pajama pants, twirling the remaining drops of hot chocolate in the cup. "She doesn't ever let me see her stuff but she's always at it, without fail. Rain or shine."

"Aw, you big baby." She cooed in a mocking tone. John shot her a glare. "C'mon, John. It's not a matter of guessing, it's trust. You clearly trust her on a certain level because you let her paint this."

"I'm just not good at painting." He said, and it was the truth.

"Well, I'm sure you didn't bother making a back-up in case it flopped." She countered. "Did you?"

His lip twitched, caught. He set the cup down, adjusting his position by scooting farther back to the couch, and watched and Dustin. The little one was still tearing through his mountain of gifts like a paper shredder. He'd gotten mostly toy cars, more coloring books, and puzzles. A lot of puzzles. Besides watching Winnie the Pooh on repeat, Dustin loved putting puzzles together—didn't matter what kind and how many pieces. John wasn't much of a puzzle guy, but he shared the same love for assembling and building and fixing. He couldn't keep his own life together but for a few minutes or just a few hours he could divert his attention and make himself believe he could.

"Here, your turn." Sandra threw a package at John. He caught it before it landed on his outstretched legs.

It was a small box, wrapped flawlessly in an icy blue, snowmen pattern. Lightweight. His name was written in Sandra's fancy cursive on the plain to and from sticker with a sleigh bell at the top. _To John, from Santa_. He rolled his eyes but his heart still raced. All he could think of was a Marlboro box in disguise. It's the only gift his father had ever given him. John swallowed thickly.

"What's in it?"

She set the vase on the floor, by the side of the loveseat, tucking her feet under her thighs. "Open it and find out."

John ripped the tape from the corners, pulling out the box inside, his nerves flying throughout his body. It turned out to be a leather wallet. The tag had been removed. He couldn't tell if it was a big named brand, and he didn't care. He'd picked up his current wallet in a parking lot when he was twelve. He even had the persons' ID—Manuel Santiago—tucked in one of the pockets, only using it to get into nightclubs with his old pals.

"But I already got a wallet." John said, confused, holding the new one up.

Sandra rested her head on her arms, about ready to fall asleep right there. "I've seen it. I figured you could use a new one, preferably one that's not falling apart—and without all those photos."

John frowned sideways. "What's so wrong with 'em?"

"Do I really have to spell it out for you?" She replied irritably. "Yeah, it'll make you look cool to the guys but no girl will ever take you seriously, or even date you, with _that_ in your wallet."

"You're acting like I got nudies, Sandra." He said flatly. "They're harmless."

"That's not my point, stop trying to deflect."

"Sandra." His brows flattened, tilting his head to the side. "You really think a kid like me's gonna grow up believing in love and relationships? Be realistic."

"It's a very normal teenage thing to want, John." She said. "You're not exempt from it and getting to experience it because of Johnathon."

John scoffed. "It's not for me. I already know."

"You really think so?"

He kept his eyes on Dustin, who was playing with one of the cars already. "Yeah, 'cause why have one when you can get many? I'm only seventeen. I'm too young to be tied down to just one chick."

"Okay, I'll give you that last part. I had a lot of boyfriends when I was your age… God, I miss those times. It's so hard to date at this age…" She trailed off, shaking herself out of dream land. "I'm just saying. You really should do yourself the favor and get rid of them before a girl you actually like sees them."

"I'll think about it." He said briskly, flicking his hair out of his face.

"Hey, what about that girl?" She asked abruptly, sitting straight as a rod, her hands clutching her calves. "I'm sure she wouldn't like the idea."

"Which one of the many girls?" He asked rhetorically. "I can assure ya, they're fine with it. None of 'em bother to go through my personal belongings, anyway."

"I'm talking about the redhead from the office that was checking you out when I gave Dustin to you."

John's jaw nearly dropped once he processed the sentence. "You... did that on purpose."

"Of course I did." She answered like he should've known. "I told you, John, you're gonna need all the help you can get if you're really considering getting with a girl like that."

"Hey, I never said I wanted her."

She wagged her finger. " _Please_. It was all over your face, kiddo. Besides, if there's one thing girls know well it's each other. So, what's her name?"

John gave a side-ways glare at her smug grin. "Claire."

"Claire?" Sandra reiterated. "That's such a sophisticated name, I'm jealous. I'll never forgive my parents for sticking me with Sandra Dewitt Bender."

"You're right. Sandra-Dee's a lot better."

"Shut up! They're both awful!"

John chuckled. "Don't be jealous. Claire's a fat girl's name."

"Oh. My. God." Her jaw slacked. "Please, please, _please_ tell me you didn't actually say that to her!"

"Unfortunately for me, I haven't gotten the luxury of talking to her." He smirked, watching her face continue to deteriorate. "But what about it? You think she'd get mad if I did?"

Sandra blinked. " _Duh_! And if she doesn't slap you for it, I will!"

" _Mommymommymommy_!" Dustin screeched like he saw a cockroach, pushing a still wrapped box in between John and Sandra. John didn't remember this box from last night. "It's alive!"

The box was wrapped in an obnoxious Santa's elves pattern. Holes were poked on the sides, like whatever was inside needed air. But didn't see anything moving inside.

Sandra smiled. "Take the ribbon off, Dustin. It's for both of you."

Dustin tried untying it but he didn't know how. He didn't even knew how to tie his own shoes yet. John leaned over, guiding his little fingers through the knot. Dustin took the top off but held onto it for too long. John caught a flash of black as it hopped out and hauled for the fir. He pulled his lips, hiding his smile.

Dustin placed the top down, staring down into the box. "It's empty!"

Sandra giggled. "Turn around."

He whirled. "I don't see!"

John crawled towards the back of the fir, where he'd seen the kitten duck and hide for. And hiding behind an unopened box leaning against the wall was a pair of round, yellow eyes staring at him frighteningly.

He reached out slowly, trying to hook his index finger in the frilly, blue ribbon around its neck. "C'mon. It's okay."

The kitten sniffed, giving John enough time to slip his finger in the ribbon. He gently pulled it towards him, close enough to place his other hand under its belly. It purred. God, it was so tiny, couldn't be any bigger than table grapes. It fit in his palm perfectly. It must be a few months old.

Its coat was mostly black though its belly was white. The white stretched down to its little paws, and up to the chest. The area around his nose also white, along with a stripe down the crevice. John wasn't sure of the breed yet.

Dustin stared at it. "Who is that kitty?"

John held it—him—up, close to Dustin's face. "Yours."

Dustin's jaw dropped like a cartoon characters. "Mine?"

"Yeah." He smiled. "It's Flower."

Dustin cooed, grabbing Flower in his small hands and hugging him to his chest. "Flower!"

Flower curled into Dustin immediately, purring like a machine. John watched fondly, Dustin repeating Flower's name like a prayer.

"And that big box is for you, big kid." Sandra's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. She pointed at the box in emphasis. "I asked Santa to wrap it nicely just for you."

He reached for it but the box weighed. "What is it?"

Sandra frowned. "If I tell you it won't be a surprise…"

John rolled his eyes, cupping both sides of the long, rectangular box. He set it on his lap, the weight of it pressed down on his thighs. He couldn't figure out what exactly could weigh this much. Once the gift wrapping was off, it revealed a plain, brown box with the top taped down. He struggled removing the tape. Girls had it so easy with their long-ass nails. He missed his switchblade. He'd thought about buying a new one, but he didn't have a reason now. He only had one before because he felt safe with it. It especially came in handy when he and his boys were on someone else's turf.

When he finally got enough of it off, John ripped open a piece. The color of whatever it was poked through. Squinting, he saw a glint of silver. Six, vertical strings.

" _Holy shit_!" He exclaimed, ripping a chunk that took most of the top apart.

"I'll let that one slide today."

John lifted the guitar by the neck. A Fender Stratocaster, with the same pure white finish as the one Jimi Hendrix played before he burned it. The headstock wasn't upside down so it couldn't be the exact one he had. Still, that didn't matter. It was a guitar. And it was his.

John was at a loss for words. His lips moved but words wouldn't come out. Nothing could properly convey what he felt. "I dunno how to thank you, Sandra."

"Don't." Sandra shrugged. "I didn't buy it, it was my dad's. He was a collector of all sorts of things— _guy_ things like cars, and watches, and so much music equipment. I had most of it from his will, but most of it's gone by now. Except that. It was his favorite, I couldn't do it." She sighed. "I think I should've held onto the car, though. That would've been a way better gift for a kid like you."

John shook his head, placing the body of the guitar on his thighs. "I don't care about that."

"You would, if you knew it was a 50's Rolls Royce." She stated. "All black exterior, a white and champagne interior, barely twenty-k miles on it. I don't know much about cars but it was pretty beautiful."

John whistled. "And you sold that?"

"It helped a lot. It paid for the divorce papers and I had some left over to put in money for this place." Sandra sighed, staring at the guitar wistfully. "I never saw my dad use the car, but the guitar? ... I can't think of a time where I didn't see him with it. He was a song writer, too, you know? Always playing, always thinking of a new piece. My parents used to sing Johnathon and me to sleep. I couldn't sell that and I'm glad I held onto it. I was gonna give it to Dustin when he got older, but I think it's meant to be yours."

John watched Dustin and Flower, hoping to fight off the bitter pressure welling behind his eyes. Dustin had dumped one of the boxes full of puzzle pieces on the rug. On his hands and knees, he was at it, trying to stick the pieces together. Flower was hanging out on top of his back, pawing at a curl of Dustin's hair.

The strings were thick under the pads of his fingers. He tried to imagine the feeling his grandpa felt when playing this. Grandpa Donovan died before John got to meet him.

"You don't think he'd mind me having it?" He managed to say, but in a small voice that couldn't be his.

"You're family." She responded. "What better place to keep it in?"

* * *

John practiced wherever.

At home. During school. While babysitting. When the nightmares were so bad he couldn't go back to sleep.

Those nights he'd sit on the front porch and play. He had to stop the night time playing eventually. It bothered some of the neighbor's. That's when Flower came in. He made a space for himself on John's bed when he wasn't sleeping in Dustin's. For now, Flower was able to keep the nightmares at bay.

There was so much he wanted to learn, so many songs he wanted to play, so many things he wanted to do. Maybe he'd get good enough to be able to create his own music, like his grandfather. Sandra had dug up a shoebox filled to the brim with Grandpa Donovan's stuff—binders full of music sheets and notebooks tacked with scribble-scrabbles of incoherence. If he got good enough, John might even be able to start a band someday. Wasn't this how most rock stars started out? As nothing, just like him? Just looking for a way out? Just wanting to be heard and recognized?

Until then, John practiced even as his fingers bled onto the strings. Brian noticed one day, looking up from his studying of trigonometry, offering him advice on how to clean his fingers and to remove the stains. The next day, Allison pulled out a guitar pick from her bag. John wasn't sure how she got her hands on it and didn't ask. It was a little worn but he still used it. And if his playing during lunch bothered either of them they never said anything.

John hadn't gotten much better two weeks. The most he knew how to play was a few chords. He wasn't entirely sure if the tuning was right. He tried fixing it but it didn't sound right no matter how many times he adjusted the turners. Seeking help from the music teacher crossed his mind, but with how he barely paid attention to them in class? It was pointless. He was better off learning on his own.

Fixing the top most turner, John strummed to the rhythm of the song. He was trying to learn " _Love Me Madly_ " by The Doors. 50's and 60's rock seemed easy. He'd soon move onto AC/DC and even Scorpions when he felt confident.

"I like that song."

"No shit?" John halted, looking over his shoulder. Allison's head was down, the way it always was. "I didn't think you'd be into The Doors."

"You never asked."

He licked his lips. "Are you?"

"No." She said. "I just like that song."

"Then, what're you into?"

Allison shrugged one shoulder. "I dunno. Anything."

"I, uh..." Brian started shyly before John could retort. "I love Jim Morrison's poetry. I think it's great work."

"Well, that's unexpected." John commented offhandedly.

"What do you mean?"

John lifted his back off the edge of the table and slung the guitar over his shoulder and put the pick in his breast pocket. He meet Brian's puzzled expression.

"You just don't look like the type." He responded, indicating to his bright green ski vest and highwaters. How many pairs of highwaters does one kid have?

"Neither do you." Brian countered, then amiably flushed. "Well, I mean you do. You look like the person who'd be, uh, _into_ The Doors and _that_ kind of music. I just, uh, I thought you didn't like to read…"

"I don't."

"Well, what do you do?"

"Selective reading."

Brian paused. "That's not any different, Bender."

"Sure is! I only read when it pertains to my interests—which I don't have many of. Like right now—" John picked up the Intro to Guitar book he actually rented from the public library. "—I'm reading shit about music to get better. Can you believe what the world's come to?"

"I do that!" Allison interjected.

"Oh, c'mon, Al." John's eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Every time I see ya, your nose's in a book or something. Some of 'em aren't even for class. You got a lotta interests."

"Just because I'm looking doesn't mean I'm seeing, John."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"'Looking' and 'seeing' aren't the same." Allison responded coolly. "They're mutually exclusive."

Brain shot John a confused look, head titled like a puppy that couldn't understand the source of the sound.

John's own brows knitted in equal confusion. His mouth searched for the right words. "You mean to tell me that every time we're here you just stare at the page?"

Allison shrugged. "Sometimes."

Only Allison could go from being a cool girl one second, then just as easily morph back to her typical weird girl self the next. They were an odd functioning unit, if they really even functioned at all. Brian was the awkward yet smart one, John was the egotistical yet practical one, but John couldn't figure out what her role in the group was—being 'the cool yet weird girl' didn't cut it. Maybe Allison's just meant to be indescribable.

"Are we, uh, are we that bad of company?" Brian asked when John couldn't think of anything to say.

Allison shook her head. "I just don't really know what to say sometimes."

"You can say whatever you want." Brian offered, smiling kindly. "It's what friends do. We talk about, uh, whatever."

"Preferably not physics. Or math. Or _anything_ related to school." John added, lacing his fingers together like a student ready to learn. "I'd like to be part of the conversation."

"I think you'd put yourself in the middle of any sort of conversation… Even if it was school-related."

John frowned. "Well, I can't say you're wrong about that. So, did you dildo's hear about the richie party going on this weekend?"

"Um... Are you talking about Cheryl's After New Years' party?"

"Sure, whatever the chick's name is, people can't keep their mouths shut about it." John replied. "She throws one every year, they say. It's supposed to get pretty wild."

"I've heard." Brian said but shook his head. "But I can't go."

"Why not?"

"My mom." was his only answer.

"C'mon, Big-Bri! I'll sneak ya out." He made the motions of his plan with his hands. "We'll put coupla' pillows under your blanket, fix a string to the knob, so every time she opens the door, the thing'll move like you're rolling over."

Brian followed all his movements with weary eyes. "I don't think I wanna know how many times you've done something like this..."

"It's fool proof, Brian. Idiot proof, even. I'll have ya back in bed by two."

"Sorry, Bender." He said, smiling sadly. "I'm still passing."

"You can't seriously let me go alone, Brian!" John flailed his arms. "You're gonna leave me all alone with the hyenas!"

Brian turned the page of his Anatomy textbook, done with the conversation. "I know you can handle it."

John huffed, letting the air out through his nose like a bull ready to charge. "What about you? Allison?"

Allison's silence and refusal to look up was his answer. He'd have to go alone. What kind of friends were they, letting him wander into unknown territory on his own?

* * *

Richies had no clue how to party. John already knew that from those times he'd been with Dennis and his guys. All they did was sit out in their backyards and deal, while the guests were in another dimension. Why did he even bother coming to this one, knowing exactly that?

This was his second solo act in two weeks. Richies seemed to throw parties every weekend. Every fucking weekend. What the fuck did their parents do that they'd leave so often? Was this all coordinated?

The music pounding throughout the house was some new wave bullshit that made New Order sound like God's work. The food was garbage, lobbed all across the downstairs hardwood floor, along with crushed cans and someone's vomit. The crowd was too drunk, or too high—or worse, both—to walk properly; lots of plastic red cups being refilled, zigzagging, bumping, shoving. Almost like a mosh-pit except without the actual fun of being in one. And the host of this party—that fucking senior named Stubby—was nowhere to be found.

So, this is officially how all richies got down to business. All of them, suffocating in sweat and colorful vomit like a bunch of abandoned animals.

John's brows rose scornfully, catching the silhouettes of a couple making out on the stairway. It looked more like cats licking each other's faces than actual tonguing. They almost fell had the guy not caught the railing at the last second. It would've been a sight to see, but alas.

The sound his boots made as they crushed the remains of the shattered vase was so nice. Ever since being shipped to Shermer, he had to trade combat boots for Vans. His previous boots were old, he'd put them through hell and a back and they'd been starting to give out about a year ago. But he never had cash to buy a new pair and he'd never let Jeremiah buy him another. But he'd saved up enough cash through babysitting and bought himself new ones. It was like coming home.

John recognized no one he cared to associate with; not even Dennis and his wannabe thugs were here—not that he actually wanted to speak to them ever again either. Those guys only came to these parties to deal out whatever Dennis concocted. And the more John circled downstairs, the more going back to Sandra's seemed like a plausible idea. Getting shit-faced was out of the question.

But then, he smelled it; the familiar, earthy-murky scent of someone blazing it, the smell drifting into the house through the screened window. His throat was on fire all of a sudden, a burning thirst. God. He hadn't smoked in almost three months—not that he was counting. He'd been so good at steering clear of it since that Saturday, because...

What _if_ Sandra found out? What would she do? Kick him out? John wasn't ready for that, not when he was just getting adapted. The anxiety over the possibilities overrode his aching until right now.

Now, he wanted it, _needed_ it—the way a kid _needed_ candy and would throw a temper tantrum if they didn't get it. John reasoned that he'd only take a hit or two, no big deal. It was just enough to get a glaze, take him away from this three-story congested house of comb-backed hair, and noisy neon colors, and Lacoste shirts.

Steeling himself, John rounded the corner towards the kitchen, heading for the backyard. He was just about to pass the staircase when he was shoved. His anger would've exploded if it hadn't been a girl that bumped into him. If that girl hadn't been Claire. She'd been trying to walk down the stairs, using the wall to keep herself steady but somehow slipped.

His hands immediately reached out, keeping her from falling headfirst to the ground. She doubled over on his forearms, gripping them with equal quickness. Her hands were like iron and sweaty. John thought her nails would tear through his clothing and pierce his skin. Not that he'd actually mind, just not here.

"Sorry!" Claire slurred, trying to stand straight. She was far up enough that he could see her flushed face and runny mascara. "I didn't think you'd—I..."

She hiccupped, and he braced himself. Her retching rang above the music.

* * *

This wasn't how he envisioned their first conversation; not at some lame party, with her sitting in a decaying mess of tears and runny mascara on the bathroom floor, completely shit-faced and whining about her so called 'problems'. And him, trying to salvage his boots before the leather decompressed because it'd taken him almost an hour before a bathroom vacated.

"And… And you know what Anne did?" Claire sniffed.

"What?" John asked, careful not to scrub too hard with the rag. He didn't actually want to know, but he needed to keep her talking. If Sullivan and his hammered episodes taught John anything, it was to keep a drunk awake. "What did Anne do to you now?"

"She came Wednesday... wearing the same Ralph Lauren dress I did last week!" Claire bawled, wiping her face furiously with the other rag he'd found, smearing her mascara across her pink cheeks and delicate nose. "She said the shoulder pads were ugly, and the lace... the lace reminded her of grandma's clothes. How could she say it was ugly and then try to... try to wear it just like me, you know?"

John turned on the faucet, dampening the rag. "She could've been lying before."

"I know! She's such a little liar... She does it all the time... I just don't understand." Claire sniffed, trying to pat her eyelids the way a girl would when she was trying not to mess up her makeup, except Claire missed completely. "She's… She's always trying to copy me. Ever since third grade... She just can't stand how popular I am! I can't... I can't help it if everybody loves me!"

John wasn't sure why but he found her declaration hilarious, but he did and chuckled.

"It's not funny." She said miserably, on the verge of more tears. "She even tried dying her hair. Red."

"Oh, yeah?" John licked his lips, filling another of the mouthwash cups to the brim.

She nodded. "But she can't get my color. It's natural."

He'd briefly dabbled in the thought, in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep, wondering if the curtains matched the drapes. Now he knew. He passed the cup down to Claire.

"I don't think... my other friends like me very—" She squinted, her entire face pinching and folding, trying to focus but it was hard. "But you… already gave me… like four." She tried to hold up four fingers but only managed two.

"Two." He corrected.

"No, five. I want more wine!"

"Drink it." John said, trying not to sigh. Why was taking care of a drunk person almost like taking care of a child? At least he liked looking after Dustin. "It's mixed with tequila."

"Ooh! Yay!" Her trembling hands took the cup. Her movements were quick for a drunk and she tried to jerk her head back and take it like a shot.

"Slowly!" He hissed, lunging for the cup, but his hand found its way to the nape of sweaty neck and tilted her head forward before she could smack it against the wall. "I don't need you to pass out, Claire!"

She blinked deliberately, squinting her swollen eyes again, forehead puckering. "You have pretty eyes."

He was taken aback, at a loss for words. "You think I have pretty eyes?"

Claire nodded, a playful smile tugging her lips. "I think I know you. You're that guy... from that morning... with the button-nosed baby. And I see you at lunch, staring at me... It's so cute! My friends talk about you all the time!"

John kept one hand on her sweaty neck, and opened up the cabinet again with the other. This bathroom was relatively small and normally he'd complain about why, but for right now, he was thankfully. But there were no medication in this case, not that it was a good idea to give it to her now anyway. "What do they say about me?"

"They think you're really hot..." She giggled. "Not, like, as hot as Fredrick, or Owen, or Andrew, or Stubby... But somewhere in there!"

What he really wanted to know was what she thought of him. Her opinion was the only one that mattered. But he wouldn't ask that, not yet. He wanted her to be sober.

John carefully placed her head on the ivory wall and stood up, opening the mirror on top of the sink. Nothing. No Advil, no Tylenol, not even Band-Aids. She was going to wake up with a nasty hangover tomorrow.

"Hey, do you have a girlfriend?" She swallowed loudly. "'cause Jennifer was thinking about talking to you sometime. I think she wants to ask you out! She's so... She's so bold like that."

"I'm not interested in Jennifer." He didn't even know who she was, honestly.

"Aw, that's too bad!" Claire said. "Not even friends? Like, would you... would you be her friend?"

"Nah."

"What about me?" She asked, his blood temperature dropping. "Can we be friends?"

"Sure." John knew better than to think anything of it. Come Monday, she wouldn't speak to him. She wouldn't remember anything about the puking, about the bathroom, about him. But he wanted to be humored, just for one night. "You alone? Did you come alone?"

"No." Claire responded slowly. "I came with Jennifer."

"Where is she?"

"I dunno…" He slipped off his other boot, wiping it down the way he had with the first one. "She disappeared… to find Anne… We're all friends, you know? We do everything together!"

"Yeah, I got that. What about the others?"

"Well, Morgan is… is still in London." Claire replied. "And… And we left Patricia at Owen's. You know, her parents don't know they're still… like, together-together so we help her sneak around."

He scoffed. "Guess you richie queenies aren't so pristine after all."

It was abruptly silent, besides the music hammering outside the door. John pivoted. Thankfully, Claire was still awake, blinking like she was just waking up from a nap, trying to make sense of her surroundings. He passed her another cup of water and Claire didn't complain this time.

He figured his boots were clean enough. He discarded the rag in the garbage. Not like this guy would care, he could buy thousands more. The foul stench was gone, along with the contents she'd dumped. He couldn't tell what she'd eaten but it looked pretty nasty.

John caught movement from his peripheral as he was wiping it off the water residue. Claire was trying to get up, her arms wobbling as one hand clutched the edge of the porcelain tub and the other gripping the bar of the towel rack. He managed to catch her before she fell.

"Fuck, Claire! Stop trying to get up!" He seethed, gently placing her on the toilet seat. Her slender body against his felt so nice.

"I have to… to find them…" She mumbled against his neck. On any other day, he'd probably love her hot breath against him, just not like this. "Jennifer… Can't do anything without… me."

"We'll go find them, just let me finish." He said. "Deal?"

She nodded vigorously. "Okay!"

John refilled the very last cup, handing it to her again. She sipped it. He perched on the edge of the sink, slipping his boots back on, debating whether to tie the thin laces.

"Hey, what's your name?" She asked, watching him.

"What's yours?"

Claire giggled like he told the funniest joke. "You already know mine, silly!"

John shrugged, tying a double knot. "I wanna hear it from you."

"But I asked you first!"

He licked the inside corner of his mouth, placing the finished foot down and pulling the other up. "John."

"Yeah?" She smiled. "That's my great… great… grandpa's name. He served in… in the army, I think. We all have family names. I'm Claire!"

His smile was pinched, and he found it pretty easy to not say the comment he'd said to Sandra. "Well, Claire, I think it's time to get you home."

"But why?" She whined like a child, trying to pull away from his hand on her arm. "I'm having so much fun!"

John sighed as he slung her arm across his shoulders. "Totally."

* * *

Claire drove a fucking Trans Am. A black one. And, of course, finding her car in the near-pitch black thickness of the night took forever. This guy's parents apparently didn't believe in lamps in their front yard.

Fucking rich people.

They finally found her car, towards the very back of the _line_ of cars, only for Claire to realize she didn't have her fucking keys. Her stupid green Esprit tote ended up wedged under the couch, between dust and food pieces and dog shit. Just great.

But at least now things were okay. He couldn't find any of her supposed friends at the party, though. Claire's descriptions hasn't exactly been the best.

She'd rested her head on the passenger window, groaning occasionally. "God, I feel so sick."

"Sucks." He said.

She took a quick sip from the bottled water he'd taken from Stubby's kitchen right after the bathroom fiasco. All that time he'd spent searching hadn't been entirely wasted—though it'd been a hell of a lot more of a hassle than he expected, having to make sure Claire didn't wander off while trying to search for the elusive garment.

"My head's starting to hurt. Ugh. I can't _believe_ I tried to get wasted." She rubbed her forehead, sighing.

"Any particular reason why?"

"I dunno. Pressure, I guess?" She sighed again, frustrated. "Look, I'm actually not really comfortable discussing this. I mean, it's already enough that I'm letting a total stranger take me home."

"Fine by me. Don't talk."

A dense silence hung between them. John hated it. He was so used to _making_ people talk, _making_ conversation out of something random, and usually demeaning. But he was just a little tongue-tied. He didn't want to screw up this rare opportunity. His hand clicked on the buttons of the radio, changing the station around until he found one he liked. A rock station. Lynyrd Skynrd's " _Free Bird_ " started playing.

Claire didn't protest, which he found interesting. Didn't richies only listen to that new wave bullshit from the party, and that sugary-sweet, mainstream pop, and the occasional []?

"Everyone else did it." Claire confessed suddenly, in a small voice. "So why couldn't I?"

"That makes you a follower." John said.

"I guess so." She admitted, with a twist of her lip. "It's… It's not fun watching your friends and everyone else have a good time while you're on the outside. Like, it makes you feel kind of alone, just sitting there on the couch while everything happens around you. You know what I mean?"

John pressed his lips, hating how much he related. "We do uncharacteristic things sometimes."

"Oh, yeah?" Claire took her head off the window, leaning her full, slender weight against the recliner. It was set back into a position that wasn't all the way back but not entirely upright. "What about you? Have you done anything tonight that's 'uncharacteristic' of you?"

"Well…" He drawled. "For one, I don't particularly take care of drunk girls."

"Aww!" She cooed, pulling his cheek. "Look at you being all chivalrous."

He swat her hand away, cheek flaming, and she giggled at his antics. "And, second, I don't drive a girl I barely know to her house without some kind of invitation."

Her smile slipped. "What?" John merely made an expressive face and Claire's nose crinkled, understanding immediately. "You mean, you sleep with girls you barely know?"

"That a problem to you?"

"I'm not sure, but aren't you…" She blinked, trying to process the idea. "Aren't you worried you'll contract something by sleeping with a complete stranger? I mean, don't you wanna be established and not have to worry?"

John scoffed. "Being established don't mean shit. Cheating is a thing, could happen at any time. And I'm protected."

Claire nodded, though John was sure she didn't grasp the idea. "I see. I don't think I could ever do that."

"Why not? It's real easy." John said, gripping the wheel in one hand and demonstrating with the other. "Doesn't take much. Take a few hits, knock back a coupla' cans, and you'll see. Sex is better when you're far gone, anyway."

"Is that all you burners do?" She asked, curiosity laced with skepticism. "Get high? Have sex all the time? And those heavy metal vomit parties? Is it really that enjoyable?"

His fingers clutched the steering wheel, knuckles beginning to turn white. He could feel the muscle in his cheek spasm. He hated being called that. Burner.

"I could ask you the same thing, ya know."

"What're you talking about?" Her voice rose, a defensive reflex. "I don't do anything."

"Spare me, Claire."

"I don't understand."

"Well, let me paint ya a picture: When you see all your friends buying new cars, you'll trade this in without batting an eye." He lightly tapped the steering wheel for emphasis, then pointed. "And those nice shoes you got on? You won't wear 'em ever again. They'll be outta 'style' by next week—"

"I think that's enough." She said gravelly.

But he continued. "Hey, and those diamonds? I like them, I bet they're real diamonds. Your daddy buy them for you? For Christmas?"

Her expression hardened at the mention of her father. "Shut up."

"Yeah, he did. They'll have a permanent home in your jewelry box when Anne or Patricia or whichever one of your friends says you can't wear 'em anymore."

"Stop it."

"So, now, I gotta ask you: is that all you richies do?" He reiterated. "Just throw away your parents' hard earned money because it's suddenly not good enough for ya anymore? And your little friends? You enjoy the drama and the backstabbing? Or do you just enjoy feeling sorry for yourself?"

"Shut. Up." A warning.

He did, his stomach twisting and clenching painfully. Sandra would be so disappointed in him. He was pissed at himself. He'd lost control, just as easily as jerking this car into a tree would be. Was this how his father felt? Did he always feel that powerful, for those white hot minutes?

God, he hated himself for even thinking that. John wanted to bang his head against the steering wheel. Shame washed over him like a tidal wave. How could he have done this, her eyes wet with tears she refused to let go of? And what scared him the most was how easy it'd been. John didn't want to picture how easy the rest could come along.

Claire burped, quickly slapping her hand over her mouth. He pulled himself out of his pity and pulled over, careful not to jerk it too much, and she flung the door open as John set the car in park.

Despite everything, he scooted closer, reaching out and rubbing the small of her back as Claire puked her guts out on the empty street, onto the curb leading to someone's front lawn. She trembled and shook, but it was from the cold and the rolls of nausea coursing through. He'd offer to hold her hair back but he wasn't sure if that was crossing a line.

It felt like an eternity before she stopped, coughing roughly to clear her throat, and looked over her shoulder. Her delicate profile was withering. "This is so embarrassing…"

"This is child's play, Cherry, believe me." Claire's eyes widened and she hurled over again. "A burner like me's seen so much worse."

When she finally finished, Claire tried to sit up, almost leaning completely into him, so close that her soft, strawberry-scented hair tickled his nose. She didn't say anything about the proximity, the complete lack of personal space, or where his hand was, which was now resting on her hip. He would've _really_ liked this had she not reeked of the party.

"You said you didn't—" She hiccupped. "—take care of drunk girls..."

"Oh, I don't, but I got an old man who loved knocking back a beer or two during the day."

Shit. He didn't know why he said that. It was something John hadn't even told Brian or Allison about. And another uncomfortable silence fell between them, almost like Claire was trying to process what he'd just said the same way he was trying to figure out why he'd even let it slip.

"Can you check the console?" She asked quietly, guiding his hand off. "I have mouth wash and napkins in there."

John couldn't help but ask as he sat back and popped it open, "Huh. You come prepared. You do this often?"

"If it's not 'cause of my friends, it's 'cause of my parents." was the only thing she said.

She left his mind to ponder, keeping her back to John. She gargled and spit it on the curb. Wiping her mouth clean, she settled back into the seat, closing the door, and picked up the half-drunk bottle she'd been working on. John took it as a sign that it was safe, shifting the gear back to drive.

There was something on the tip of his tongue he wanted to say. His heart was hammering, her destination getting closer with each left turn and yielding lights at the intersection. He just couldn't work up the courage. The sound of water slushing and Claire drinking the bottle in large gulps was also distracting.

"You gotta slow down." He said.

"I'll be fine." Claire said sharply.

John shrugged. "Don't say I didn't warn ya when I gotta pull over for you again."

She was quiet. Def Leppards " _Photograph_ " started playing. He loved that song, and now he hated it because from here on out it would probably be associated with Claire and tonight.

"I… I'm sorry for the comment earlier." She said thinly. "I shouldn't have said that."

He swallowed, almost slamming down on the brake instead of lightly pressing for the coming stop sign. His jaw tightened, and he could not believe the shit that was about to come out of his mouth. Again. He must've inhaled too much of the weed earlier, that was the only logical explanation for why he was acting this way.

"I'm sorry, too." He finally said.

"That sounded like it was hard for you to admit."

"You've got no idea." He muttered at her light, clearly humored tone. "Only ever done it twice my whole life."

"Wow." She marveled. "Whoever that person is and I must be pretty special."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

She giggled, a honey sound he wanted to hear more of. She tapped lightly on the window. "My house is this one."

Of course he shouldn't be surprised that Claire's was the fanciest on the block. Honestly, it was a lot nicer than Stubby's—and with lights situated on the driveway path, illuminating the blanket of melting snow covering the grass. The titled driveway curved into a three story house with symmetrical proportions and steep roofs. Old style, yet weirdly modern.

"This isn't a house…" John trailed off, counting all the windows, and taking in the animal-shaped shrubs as he maneuvered towards the garage. "This is a palace."

"Really?" Claire smiled faintly, twisting her body in a way that made her skirt ride up. She was wearing those shear pantyhose—he thought—that made her legs shimmer like she'd sprinkled some glitter on them. "I don't think it's _that_ big. Morgan's is so much bigger, and prettier. She even has an indoor pool with a Jacuzzi."

He didn't say anything, didn't know what to say without coming across as a bitter asshole—which he was trying _not_ to be right now. But, fucking rich people. They had it _so_ good.

Claire pressed on her purse and the garage door lifted, the lights inside automatically turning on. He was surprised at how messy and cluttered it was. And, still, no other car.

John was acutely aware how Claire hadn't taken her eyes off him, studying him methodically as he parked the car and killed the engine. He jingled the keys in front of her, her loop strewn with keychains and friendship bracelets that she's tied instead of keeping them on her wrist. Claire snatched it with a roll of her eyes.

"You know, I've been trying to find you forever." She said, twirling the loop around her finger. "Was that your mom at the office?"

John couldn't get his cluttered mind under control. The things Claire had told him were too much to take in for one night. She'd talked about him to her friends. They knew about him. One of them was even resolved on finding a moment during the day to speak to him—to probably fuck, which he wouldn't mind at all considering it's been a while since he'd last gotten laid. And he wasn't a stranger to girls finding him attractive or wanting to get to know him on a more than friendly basis, but... He didn't know why things with Claire were so different. He wanted to do things differently with her.

"Nah, she's my aunt. Sandra." He said wobbly, clearing his throat, and hoping Claire hadn't caught it.

"Is she a model? She's so tall."

"Nursing assistant." He clarified. "She's trying out for the director spot."

Claire nodded understandingly. "So, the kid is your cousin?"

"Yeah, Dustin. He's two. I babysit him."

Her eyes sparked with curiosity. "Really?"

He couldn't believe this was actually happening. John recovered from the momentary surprise, hoping that his mouth hadn't stayed open for too long. _Why_ did Sandra have to be right? Claire was eating this shit up like caviar and John didn't even have to lie. At all.

"Her schedule's kinda fucked up and doesn't let her get a babysitter in time… So I offered." John shrugged nonchalantly. "It's the least I could do. And it's kinda my thing now."

"I see…" Claire shifted in her seat. "That's really nice of you. I don't think a lot of guys would do that. And a lot of people—not _just_ guys—would've left me there at the party." She smiled brightly. "So, thanks for taking me home."

His lip curved. "You're welcome."

He thought she'd get out of the car. The garage door was still wide open, and the cold was beginning to seep in. But Claire stayed in place. She didn't bother fixing her dress either, manicured fingers curling and uncurling the hem. She squeezed her thighs together, catching his gaze.

"How come you were at the party?" She asked, gnawing on her bottom lip. "I've never seen you at them before and… I think I'd remember if you were there."

"I've been to a lotta them."

"Really?"

"Yeah, heard about 'em in school." John crossed his arms, resting comfortably against the recliner. "But everyone says the same shit, about how crazy and wild they are, especially this fucking Stubby-guy's parties. Figured I should come check it out."

She smiled coyly. "Were you impressed?"

"Fuck no! Where I come from that kinda shit's considered a funeral, Claire. I'll take you to a _real_ party sometime."

Claire seemed to brighten, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, and shifting again. "Where _do_ you come from? You are from Illinois, right?"

He almost hesitated. What bits had she heard about him? "Lyons."

"Ooh." She let out. "My father goes there almost every day."

He lifted a brow. "What for? That's an hour away on a good day."

"His job." Claire shrugged, clearly not wanting to dive into it. "He's stationed here, but if they call him to another district, he goes, doesn't matter what time and no questions asked."

John nodded curtly, eyes roaming the enclosed space to find the door leading to her house. "Your dad in now?"

Claire tilted her head, letting it settle on the headrest. The fluorescent's highlighted her pale, unmarked neck. "Just me."

"Wait. You're all _alone_?" His eyes nearly bulged. "In this place? _Often_? ... And you don't throw any of these disaster parties?!"

Claire giggled. "I could never do that to him. It's one of his house rules, actually. I can do almost anything I want just as long as the house remains in one piece. But I never tell my friends."

He didn't understand. "Why not?"

Claire winced. "I'm scared they'll invite people over without asking. They've done it before—not with me, but to each other. They laugh it off like it's no big deal, but it would be a big deal. To me."

"Seems like you need new friends, Cherry."

Claire made a sound, something between a snort and a laugh. "I've heard that before. My father tells me the same thing."

"Well, the guy's not wrong."

More silence. He should really get out of the car now. Claire still didn't go, didn't make any movement other than continuously biting her lip. Like she was nervous.

"Do you, um…" She started quietly. "Do you wanna come inside? You could stay the night."

He felt lightheaded, like the way he'd felt when he took a hit for the first time; that soaring beyond the clouds feeling. "And... Do what?"

"I dunno. _Things_?" She said innocently, though the implication was there, and giggled nervously. "Or we could just sleep—like, really, just sleep."

He almost rolled his eyes, but there was nothing really funny about how uncomfortable his jeans were and how difficult it was to move. "But you don't want to, and neither do I."

"Nope." Claire bit her lip, shaking her head. "Maybe I'm still a little bit tipsy. I'm usually not so… forward."

"And here I thought you were totally disgusted by my comment earlier."

"Well, I was... But I didn't get it then, you know? I guess I kind of do now, since I know _of_ you, so, it's okay in my book." She waved her hand, still nervous. "Sorry, I'm rambling."

John took in the sight of her; the way she was looking at him under hooded eyes, her flushed cheeks, and how she'd rearranged her position so many times that now he had a clear view of the suspenders clipped to the black lace trim of her thigh-highs— _not_ pantyhose, but it didn't matter because he'd rip them apart either way—and a clear shot of her striped underwear on the curve of her hip. She was so fucking pretty and irresistible. The worst part was, she knew it.

He was hooked from all this proximity, and harmless touches, and actually talking to her. A taste of her would send him into an oblivion he didn't know if he could pull himself out of. He didn't _do_ girlfriends, but it's what he wanted from her.

And there was also the matter of her current state. She wouldn't remember any of this. Not tomorrow. Not Monday. Probably not ever.

John ripped his gaze away, pulling on his jeans. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"Why not?" She sounded disappointed. "You don't want to?"

"Believe me, I'd really love nothing more than to throw you on a couch and fuck you until you scream, but I can't." He shook his head. "It's just not a good idea right now."

"I'm sorry." Her face crumpled and she pulled the lock on the door. "I shouldn't have brought this up. My friends warned me you might have something going on with that girl."

He whirled, tugging on her arm to sit her back down. "What? You mean Allison?" Claire shrugged, _I guess_. "No! No, God, no. Allison's a friend, a good friend—I'm serious about that but we've got no relations of any kind."

Claire blinked. "Oh."

John groaned, releasing her. "Claire, it's not that I don't wanna, I'm just not the guy that takes advantage of drunk chicks… And I also don't got any rubbers on me. I wasn't planning on getting laid tonight."

"I am not _that_ drunk!" She exclaimed childishly. "I'm just... a _little_ intoxicated still. And you wouldn't have to worry, I'm on the pill."

He side-eyed her. "Didn't you pay any attention in health class? The pill's not a hundred percent effective."

"Neither is a condom." She stepped out.

"But if we got both then that's good."

"You're giving this way too much thought." She slammed the door.

His brow furrowed firmly, and he shoved his own door open. "What's your problem now? If you got it that bad, why don't you call your boyfriend?

"What're you talking about?" Claire's eyes narrowed over the roof of the car. "My ex broke up with me in the summer. I thought everybody knew this."

"Clearly not me." He said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Was it that Tommy guy?"

Claire's jaw clinched, looking away. "Yes, but I'd rather not talk about him."

"Fine." He rolled his eyes. "What about that other guy? Andrew? I see you with him sometimes."

"Andy!?" Her guard disintegrated and a huge grin spread across her face. "No way! I mean, I've known him since we were in diapers, and we went on _one_ date back in the eighth grade 'cause our friends thought we'd be _so_ good together, but I don't like him."

"Ah."

Her eyes softened. "I'm only interested in you."

He couldn't help but snort, though she'd been nothing except perfectly honest since he'd dropped her from cracking her skull open. "The fact that I'm novelty's got nothing to do with it, right?"

"Well... A little." Claire admitted slowly, ambling away towards the door to her house. "But it's not a bad thing. Different can be good. But, really, you should at least come inside until I call a cab."

He stuffed his hands deep in his pockets, the cold tingling his fingers. His mind was still in disarray. Going into that house was dangerous—not for her, but for him. "I don't need one."

Claire peered over her shoulder, cracking the door open. "How're you getting home?"

He lifted a shoulder. "Walking."

"Oh." She blinked. "Do you live by here?"

"No, by Chandler."

Her blank expression molded into shock. "You're joking!"

John looked around. "Am I laughing?"

She gave a curt wave of her hand, like ending an argument. "No, John, I can't let you do that. That's like thirty miles away!"

"Yeah, so?" He said flatly, turning on his heel. "I like to walk. It's fine."

"Can I please call you a cab?" She called out behind him. " _Please_? C'mon, I can't let you go like that."

A fit of laugher overtook him, one he felt deep within his gut. He was so loud, it reverberated through the garage. He could feel Claire's suspicion stare beating down at his back.

"What's so funny? I'm being serious."

John cleared his throat, twisting his torso to face her. "You're just being weirdly nice. After everything I did."

Claire huffed, crossing her arms. "It's not weird! I can be nice if people let me."

John scoffed. "Well, don't worry about it, Cherry. I can take care of myself."

She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. "Boys."


End file.
